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MERRYLIPS 


By   BEULAH    MARIE    DIX 


Merrylips. 

Little  Captive  Lad,  A.     111.  by  Will  Grefe. 

Soldier  Rigdale.     111.  by  Reginald  Birch. 

Blithe  McBride.     111.  by  J.  Henry. 

Hugh  Gwyeth  :    A  Roundhead  Cavalier.     111. 

by  James  Daugherty. 
Turned-About    Girls,    The.     111.    by    Blanche 

Greer. 


MERRYLIPS 


■     ■   ■■ 

MERRTLIPS 

BY 

BEULAH    MARIE    DIX 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

FRANK   T.    MERRILL 

AND 
NEW    FRONTISPIECE    AND    DECORATIONS    BY 

ANNE    COOPER 


Nefo  fgorfe 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1927 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


Copyright,  1906, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  September,  1906.  Reprinted 
1907, 1909, 1910, 1911, 1912,  1913,  1914,  1915,  1916,  1917,  1918,  1919, 
1920,  1921,  1922,  1923,  1924,  1925. 

New  edition  September,  1925;  June,  1926, 

Reissued  October,  1927. 


Nortnnoti  $rrns 

J.  S.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Library,  Univ.  of 

North  Carokn* 
TO 

EVERY  LITTLE  GIRL 

WHO  HAS  WISHED  FOR  AN  HOUR 

TO  BE  A  LITTLE  BOY 

THIS    STORY    IS    DEDICATED 

BY  HER  FRIEND 

THE  AUTHOR 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  Maid  of  Old i 

II.  Her  Birthday 10 

III.  Out  in  the  World „        .  18 

IV.  At  Larkland 28 

V.  Among  the  Golden  Gorse 37 

VI.  The  Tart  that  was  never  Baked           .                •  43 

VII.  In  the  Midst  of  Alarums 53 

VIII.  The  Silver  Ring 61 

IX.  All  in  the  Night 69 

X.  Prisoner  of  War 75 

XI.  The  Coming  of  Herbert  Lowry     ....  84 

XII.  A  Venner  to  the  Rescue  ! 92 

XIII.  In  Borrowed  Plumes 100 

XIV.  Off  to  the  Wars no 

XV.  Tidings  at  Monksfield 121 

XVI.  Brother  Officers 128 

XVII.  "Who  can  Sing  and  won't  Sing  — "       .        .        .  138 

XVIII.  To  Arms! 146 

XIX.  The  End  of  the  Day 157 

XX.  Lady  Sybil's  Goddaughter 166 

XXI.  When  the  Captain  Called 174 

XXII.  A  Parting  of  the  Ways 182 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  Outside  King's  Slynton 191 

XXIV.  The  Darkest  Day 198 

XXV.  After  the  Storm 208 

XXVI.  He  that  was  Lost 214 

XXVII.  How  Rupert  was  too  Clever       ....  224 
XXVIII.  In  the  Enemy's  Camp 234 

XXIX.  A  Friend  in  Need 244 

XXX.  To  Put  it  to  the  Touch 254 

XXXI.  At  Lord  Caversham's  Table         ....  264 

XXXII.  News  from  London 270 

XXXIII.  Westward  Ho! 278 

XXXIV.  Journey's  End 288 

XXXV.  The  Passing  of  Tibbott  Venner  ....  296 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Merrylips  Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

More  than  once  they  had  to  pause  and  sit  by  the  path,  while  the 

lad  rested      ..........       40 

"  I  am  come,  on  behalf  of  the  Parliament,  to  search  your  house  for 

arms"  ...........       56 

"  Faith,  here's  a  schooling  in  which  I'll  bear  a  hand,  my  pretty 

gentleman ! "  .........       98 

He  laid  a  hand  on  Merrylips'  shoulder  and  drew  her  to  him  .     132 

"  He's  hurt.     Thou  must  not  waken  him,"  she  said       .         .  .172 

Rupert  and  Merrylips  knew  it  was  useless  to  think  of  escape  .     234 

She  stopped  and  across  the  rim  stared  at  the  man         .         .  .     242 

On  his  bared  chest  was  a  red  mark  like  a  fresh  cut        .         .  .     268 


MERRYLIPS 

CHAPTER  I 

A  MAID   OF   OLD 

The  little  girl's  name  was  Sybil  Venner,  but  she  was 
known  as  Merrylips.  For  Sir  Thomas  Venner,  her 
jolly,  bluff  father,  never  by  any  chance  called  a  child 
of  his  by  its  baptismal  name.  His  tall  eldest  son, 
Thomas,  answered,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  to  the 
nickname  of  Longkin,  and  Edmund  and  Philip,  the 
two  younger  lads,  became  Munn  and  Flip,  and 
Katharine,  the  oldest  girl,  was  Puss,  and  prim  Lucy 
was  Pug. 

So  when  Sir  Thomas  came  riding  home  from  London 
town  and  first  saw  his  little  daughter  Sybil,  a  baby  of 
three  months  old,  crowing  and  laughing  in  her  cradle, 
he  cried :  — 

"'Truth,  here's  a  merry  lass!  Come  to  thy  dad, 
little  Merrylips." 

Thus  it  was  that  little  Sybil  was  christened  anew, 


2  MERRYLIPS 

and  Merrylips  she  remained,  to  all  who  loved  her,  to 
the  end  of  her  story. 

The  home  of  little  Merrylips  was  a  great  old  house 
called  Walsover,  which  stood  below  a  hill  hard  by  a 
sleepy  village  of  a  half-score  thatched  cottages.  The 
village,  too,  was  called  Walsover,  and  it  lay  in  that 
pleasant  part  of  merry  England  known  as  the  county 
of  Wilts. 

A  remote  countryside  it  was  in  the  days,  now  more 
than  two  long  centuries  ago,  when  our  Merrylips  was 
romping  and  laughing  in  Walsover  hall.  From  Wals- 
over to  Salisbury,  the  market-town,  was  a  journey  of 
many  hours  on  horseback,  by  roads  that  were  narrow 
and  hard  to  follow,  and  full  of  ruts  and  stones,  and 
oftentimes  heavy  with  mire. 

From  Salisbury  to  London  was  a  journey  of  days, 
in  a  carrier's  clumsy  wain  or  on  horseback,  over  downs 
where  shepherds  kept  their  flocks,  through  country  lanes 
where  the  may  bloomed  white  in  the  hedgerows,  past 
little  villages  that  nestled  in  the  shadow  of  stumpy 
church  towers,  through  muddy  towns  where  half-tim- 
bered gables  and  latticed  casements  overhung  the 
crooked  streets,  across  wide  commons  —  this  far 
oftener  than  was  pleasant !  —  where,  in  the  fear  of  high- 
waymen or  "padders,"  the  traveller  kept  a  hand  upon 
his  pistols,  and  so  at  last  into  the  narrow  streets  amid  the 


A   MAID   OF  OLD  3 

jostling  crowd,  under  the  jangling  of  the  bells  that  swung 
in  the  many  steeples  of  great  London  town. 

Of  this  long,  perilous  journey  Merrylips,  from  a  little 
child,  never  tired  of  hearing  her  father  tell.  Four  times 
a  year  he  rode  to  London,  at  the  head  of  a  little  caval- 
cade of  serving-men  in  blue  coats,  that  made  a  brave 
show  as  they  gathered  for  the  start  in  the  courtyard  at 
Walsover.  And  four  times  a  year,  when  he  came  back 
from  London,  he  brought  in  his  pockets  treasures  of 
sugar  candy,  and  green  ginger,  and  raisins  of  the  sun. 
No  wonder  that  Merrylips  longed  to  take  that  great 
journey  to  London  town,  to  have  adventures  by  the  way, 
and,  at  the  end,  come  to  the  place  where  such  sweets 
were  to  be  found ! 

But  meantime,  while  she  was  too  young  for  journeys 
and  adventures,  Merrylips  lived  at  Walsover  as  happily, 
it  would  seem,  as  a  little  maid  might  live.  Walsover 
was  a  rare  place  in  which  to  play.  The  house  was  old 
and  rambling,  with  odd  little  chambers  hidden  beneath 
the  eaves,  and  odd  little  windows  tucked  away  among 
the  vines,  and  odd  little  steps,  when  you  went  from 
room  to  room,  that  you  fell  up  or  down  —  and  Merry- 
lips found  it  hard  to  remember  which ! 

In  the  upper  story  was  a  long  gallery  in  which  to  run 
and  romp  on  the  days  —  and  there  were  many  such  in 
the  green  county  of  Wilts !  —  when  the  rain  fell  softly. 


4  MERRYLIPS 

Downstairs  were  a  great  hall,  with  a  balcony  for  musi- 
cians, and  dim  parlors,  all  wainscotted  in  dark  wood, 
where  Merrylips  grew  almost  afraid  of  the  pattering 
sound  of  her  own  footsteps. 

Better  to  her  liking  was  the  kitchen,  with  its  paved 
floor  and  vast  fireplace,  and  the  group  of  buildings 
that  lay  beyond  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  brew- 
house,  and  a  bakehouse,  and  a  dairy,  each  with  its  own 
flagged  court,  where  delightful  tasks  were  always  being 
done.  Hard  by  the  dairy  was  the  cow-house,  and  barns 
full  of  sweet-scented  hay,  and  great  stables,  where 
Merrylips  knew  by  name  and  loved  all  the  horses, 
from  her  father's  bright  bay  courser  to  the  honest 
draught  beasts.  Over  against  the  stables  were  kennels 
full  of  dogs,  both  for  hunting  and  for  fowling.  There 
were  rough-coated  staghounds,  and  fleet  greyhounds, 
and  setters,  and  spaniels. 

Round  this  block  of  buildings  and  little  courts  lay 
gardens  and  orchards,  where  wallflowers  flamed  and 
roses  blew,  and  apricots  and  cherries  ripened  in  the 
sun.  And  beyond  the  gardens  were  on  one  side  rich 
fields,  and  on  the  other  a  park  where  rabbits  bur- 
rowed and  deer  fed  in  the  dappled  shade. 

So  Merrylips  had  charming  places  in  which  to  play, 
and  she  had,  too,  playfellows  in  plenty.  She  was  the 
youngest  child  at  Walsover,  so  she  was  the  pet  of  every 


A   MAID   OF  OLD  5 

one,  from  the  least  scullery  wench  in  the  kitchen  and 
the  least  horseboy  in  the  stable,  to  her  big,  bluff 
father,  Sir  Thomas. 

Above  all,  she  was  dearly  loved  by  her  three  big 
brothers.  As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  toddle,  she  had 
begun  to  follow  them  about,  at  their  work  or  play,  and 
when  they  found  her  merry  always  and  afraid  of  nothing, 
the  lads  began,  half  in  sport,  to  give  her  a  share  in  what- 
ever they  took  in  hand. 

From  those  kind  big  brothers  Merrylips  learned  to 
climb  and  to  vault,  to  pitch  a  quoit  and  toss  a  ball, 
to  sit  a  horse,  and  whip  a  trout-brook,  to  play  fair  always, 
and  to  keep  back  the  tears  when  she  was  hurt.  These 
were  good  lessons  for  a  little  girl,  but  Merrylips  learned 
others  that  were  not  so  good.  She  learned  to  speak 
hard  words  when  she  was  angry,  to  strike  with  her  little 
fists,  to  be  rough  and  noisy.  And  because  it  seemed 
to  them  droll  to  see  such  a  mite  of  a  girl  copy  these 
faults  of  theirs,  her  brothers  and  sometimes  even  her 
father  laughed  and  did  not  chide  her. 

In  all  the  house  of  Walsover  there  was  no  one  to  say 
Merrylips  nay  except  her  mother,  Lady  Venner.  Of 
her  mother  Merrylips  stood  in  great  fear.  Lady  Venner 
was  a  silent  woman,  who  was  very  busy  with  the  cares 
of  her  large  household  and  of  the  whole  estate,  which 
was  left  to  her  management  when  her  husband  was 


6  MERRYLIPS 

away.  She  had  little  time  to  spend  on  her  youngest 
daughter,  and  that  little  she  used,  as  seemed  to  her 
wise,  in  trying  to  correct  the  faults  that  her  husband 
and  sons  had  fostered  in  the  child.  So  Merrylips  soon 
came  to  think  of  her  mother  as  always  chiding  her,  or, 
forbidding  her  some  pleasure,  or  setting  her  some  task. 
,  These  tasks  Merrylips  hated.  She  did  not  mind  so 
much  when  she  was  taught  to  read  and  write  by  the 
chaplain,  for  Munn  and  Flip,  before  they  went  away 
to  Winchester  School,  had  also  had  lessons  to  say  to 
him.  But  when  she  was  set  down  with  a  needle,  to  be 
taught  all  manner  of  stitches  by  her  mother's  waiting- 
woman,  or  bidden  to  strum  a  lute,  under  sister  Puss's 
instruction,  she  fairly  cried  with  rage  and  rebellion. 

For  down  in  her  little  heart,  so  secret  that  none  had 
suspected,  Merrylips  kept  the  hope  that  she  might  grow 
up  a  boy.  To  be  a  boy  meant  to  run  and  play,  with  no 
hindering  petticoats  to  catch  the  heels  and  trip  the  toes. 
It  meant  to  go  away  to  school  or  to  camp.  It  meant 
to  be  a  soldier  and  have  adventures,  such  as  her  father 
had  had  when  he  was  a  captain  in  the  Low  Countries. 

To  be  a  girl,  on  the  other  hand,  meant  to  sew  long 
seams  and  sit  prettily  in  a  quiet  room,  until  the  time, 
years  and  years  away,  when  one  was  very  old.  Then 
one  married,  and  went  to  another  house,  and  there  sat 
in  another  quiet  room  and  sewed  more  seams  till  the 


A  MAID   OF  OLD  7 

end  of  one's  life.  No  wonder  Merrylips  prayed  with 
all  her  heart  to  grow  up  a  boy ! 

To  her  mind  the  granting  of  this  prayer  did  not  seem 
impossible.  To  be  sure,  she  wore  petticoats,  but  so  had 
Longkin  and  Munn  and  Flip  when  they  were  little. 
If  she  did  all  the  things  that  boys  did,  she  had  no  doubt 
that  in  time  she  should,  like  them,  pass  beyond  the 
stage  of  petticoats. 

But  in  this  plan  she  was  balked  by  her  mother's 
orders  to  sew  and  play  the  lute  and  help  in  the  still- 
room  and  do  all  the  foolish  things  that  girls  were  set 
to  do.  That  was  why  Merrylips  cried  and  raged  over 
her  needlework,  and  she  raged  still  harder  on  the  day 
about  which  you  now  shall  hear. 

Sir  Thomas,  who  had  been  to  Salisbury  market, 
came  riding  home,  one  sweet  summer  evening,  and 
cried  lustily  in  the  hall :  — 

"Merrylips!  Halloo!  Where  beest  thou,  little 
jade?" 

When  Merrylips  came  running  down  the  staircase, 
with  her  flyaway  hair  all  blown  about  her  face, 
he  caught  her  and  tossed  her  in  his  arms  and  said, 
laughing :  — 

"Hast  got  thee  a  sweetheart  without  thine  old  dad's 
knowing?  Here's  a  packet  for  thine  own  small  self, 
come  by  carrier  to  Salisbury  town." 


8  MERRYLIPS 

Now  when  Merrylips  looked  at  the  packet  of  which 
her  father  spoke,  a  little  box  that  lay  upon  the  table 
beside  his  whip  and  gloves,  her  eyes  sparkled,  for  she 
guessed  what  it  held.  Only  the  month  before  her 
brother  Munn,  in  a  letter  that  he  wrote  from 
Winchester,  had  promised  to  send  her  a  fish-line  of 
hair  that  she  much  wanted  and  a  four-penny  whittle 
that  should  be  her  very  own. 

"  'Tis  from  Munn!"  she  cried,  and  struggled  from 
her  father's  arms,  though  he  made  believe  to  hold  her 
hard,  and  ran  to  the  table. 

"There  you  are  out,  little  truepenny!"  said  Sir 
Thomas. 

He  cast  himself  into  a  chair  that  his  man  might  draw 
off  his  great  riding  boots.  Lady  Venner  and  tall  Puss 
and  rosy  Pug,  who  loved  her  needle,  had  come  into 
the  hall  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  to  Lady  Venner 
he  now  spoke :  — 

"  'Tis  a  packet  come  out  of  Sussex,  from  thine  old 
gossip,  Lady  Sybil  Fernefould." 

"Ay,  our  Sybil's  godmother,"  said  Lady  Venner. 
"What  hath  she  sent  thee,  little  one?" 

All  flushed  with  joy  and  pride,  for  never  in  her  life 
had  she  received  a  packet  all  her  own  —  nor,  for  that 
matter,  had  Puss  or  Pug  —  Merrylips  tore  open  the 
box.    Instantly  she  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  anger.    Within 


A  MAID  OF  OLD  9 

the  box,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  fair  linen,  lay  a  doll, 
made  of  cloth,  and  daintily  dressed  in  a  bodice  and 
petticoat  of  thin  figured  silk,  with  little  sleeves  of  lawn 
and  a  neat  cloak  and  hood. 

"  'Tis  a  mammet  —  a  vild  mammet!"  screamed 
Merrylips,  and  dashed  it  to  the  floor  and  struck  it 
with  her  foot. 

"Oh,  Merrylips!"  cried  Pug,  in  her  soft  voice,  and 
caught  up  the  doll  and  cuddled  it  to  her  breast.  "  'Tis 
so  sweet  a  baby !  Look,  Puss !  It  hath  a  whisket  of 
lawn,  and  the  under-petticoat,  'tis  of  fair  brocade." 

"A  mammet  —  a  girl's  toy!"  repeated  Merrylips, 
and  stamped  her  foot.  "My  godmother  shall  not 
send  me  such.     I  will  not  be  a  girl.     I'll  be  a  lad." 

"Well  said  !  And  so  thou  shalt,  if  wishing  will  do't, 
my  bawcock!"   laughed  Sir  Thomas. 

But  Lady  Venner  looked  on  in  silence,  and  her  face 
was  grave. 


CHAPTER  II 

HER  BIRTHDAY 

Gentle  Pug  took  the  doll,  and,  in  the  moments 
when  she  was  not  setting  neat  stitches  or  baking 
mustards,  played  with  it  prettily.  Meantime  Merry- 
lips  went  romping  her  own  way,  and  soon  had  forgotten 
both  the  doll  and  the  godmother  that  had  sent  it. 

This  godmother  Merrylips  knew  only  by  name,  as 
the  Lady  Sybil  Fernefould,  her  mother's  old  friend,  a 
dread  and  distant  being  to  whom,  in  her  mother's 
letters,  she  was  trained  to  send  her  duty.  She  had 
never  seen  Lady  Sybil,  nor,  after  the  gift  of  the  doll, 
did  she  wish  to  see  her. 

Through  the  summer  days  that  followed  Merry- 
lips  was  busy  with  matters  of  deeper  interest  than  dolls 
and  godmothers.  She  rode  on  the  great  wains,  loaded 
with  corn,  that  lumbered  behind  the  straining  horses 
to  the  barns  of  Walsover.  She  helped  to  gather  fruit — 
plums  and  pears  and  rosy  apples.  She  watched  her 
father's  men,  while  they  thrashed  the  rye  and  wheat  or 
made  cider  and  perry.     She  shaped  a  little  mill-wheel 


HER  BIRTHDAY  II 

with  the  four-penny  whittle  that  Munn,  true  to  his 
promise,  at  last  had  sent  her,  and  set  it  turning  in  the 
brook  below  the  paddock. 

Almost  in  a  day,  it  seemed  to  her,  the  time  slipped  by, 
till  it  was  two  months  and  more  since  she  had  been 
so  angry  at  her  godmother's  gift.  Michaelmas  tide 
was  near,  and  by  a  happy  chance  all  three  of  her  tall 
brothers  were  home  from  Winchester  School  and  from 
college  at  Oxford. 

It  was  a  clear,  windy  day  of  autumn  in  the  first 
week  of  their  home-coming,  —  the  very  day,  so  it 
chanced,  on  which  Merrylips  was  eight  years  old.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  flagstones  of  the  west  terrace  of  Wals- 
over,  eating  a  crisp  apple  and  warding  off  the  caresses 
of  three  favorite  hounds,  Fox  and  Shag  and  Silver, 
while  she  watched  her  brothers  playing  at  bowls. 

They  had  thrown  off  their  doublets  in  the  heat  of 
the  game,  and  their  voices  rang  high  and  boyish. 

"Fairly  cast!" 

"A  hit!    A  hit!" 

Indeed,  they  were  no  more  than  boys,  those  three 
big  brothers.  Tall  Longkin  himself,  for  all  his  swagger 
and  the  rapier  that  he  sometimes  wore,  was  scarcely 
eighteen.  Munn,  a  good  lad  in  the  saddle  but  a  dul- 
lard at  his  book,  was  three  years  younger,  and  Flip, 
with  the  curly  pate,  was  not  yet  turned  thirteen. 


12  MERRYLIPS 

But  to  Merrylips  they  were  almost  men  and  heroes 
who  had  gone  out  into  the  world,  though  it  was  but  the 
world  of  Winchester  School  and  of  Oxford.  With  all 
her  heart  she  loved  and  believed  in  them,  those  tall 
brothers.  How  happy  she  felt  to  be  seated  near  them? 
pillowed  among  the  dogs  and  munching  her  apple, 
where  at  any  moment  she  could  catch  Munn's  eyes  or 
answer  Flip's  smile !  She  thought  that  she  should  be 
happy  to  sit  thus  forever. 

While  she  watched,  the  game  came  to  an  end  with  a 
notable  strong  cast  from  Longkin  that  made  her  clap 
her  hands  and  cry,  "Oh,  brave  !" 

Then  the  three,  laughing  and  wiping  their  hot  fore- 
heads on  their  shirt-sleeves,  came  sauntering  to  the 
spot  where  Merrylips  sat  and  flung  themselves  down 
beside  her  among  the  dogs. 

"Give  me  a  bite  of  thine  apple,  little  greedy-chaps ! " 
said  Munn,  and  cast  his  arm  about  Merrylips'  neck  and 
drew  her  to  him. 

"  To-morrow,  lads,"  said  Longkin,  who  was 
stretched  at  his  ease  with  his  head  upon  the  hound 
Silver,  "say,  shall  we  go  angling  in  Walsover  mead?" 

"Take  me!"  cried  Merrylips,  with  her  mouth  full. 
"Oh,  take  me  too,  good  Longkin!" 

"Thou  art  too  small,  pigwidgeon,"  said  Flip. 

"I    ben't,"    clamored    Merrylips.     "I    can    trudge 


HER   BIRTHDAY  1 3 

stoutly  and  never  cry,  I  promise  ye.  I  be  as  apt  to  go 
as  thou,  Flip  Venner.  Thou  hast  but  four  years  the 
better  of  me." 

"Ay,  but  I  am  a  lad,  and  thou  art  but  a  wench," 
said  Flip. 

He  had  had  the  worst  of  the  game  with  his  elder 
brothers,  poor  Flip !  So  he  was  not  in  the  sweetest  of 
humors. 

"I  care  not!"  Merrylips  said  stoutly.  "Where 
thou  canst  go,  Flip,  /  can  go !" 

At  this  they  all  laughed,  even  that  tall  youth  Longkin, 
who  was  growing  to  stand  upon  his  dignity. 

"Come,  Merrylips!"  Longkin  teased.  "What  wilt 
thou  do  an  Flip  get  him  a  long  sword  and  go  to  war? 
'Tis  likely  he  may  do  so." 

"And  that's  no  jest,"  cried  Flip,  most  earnestly. 
"Father  saith  an  the  base  Puritan  fellows  lower  not 
their  tone,  all  we  that  be  loyal  subjects  to  the  king  must 
e'en  march  forth  and  trounce  'em." 

"Then  Heaven  send  they  lower  not  their  tone!" 
added  Munn.  "I  be  wearied  of  Ovid  and  Tully. 
Send  us  a  war,  and  speedily,  that  I  may  toss  my  dreary 
book  to  the  rafters  and  go  trail  a  pike  like  a  lad  of 
spirit!" 

"So  you'll  go  unto  the  wars,  you  two?"  Longkin 
kept  on  teasing.     "Then  hang  me  if  Merrylips  shall 


14  MERRYLIPS 

not  make  a  third !  'Hath  as  good  right  as  either  of  ye 
babies  to  esteem  herself  a  soldier. " 

Then  Flip  and  Munn  cast  themselves  upon  the 
scoffing  eldest  brother  and  mauled  him  gloriously  in  a 
welter  of  yelping  dogs.  Like  a  loyal  heart  Merrylips 
tossed  by  her  apple  and  ran  in  to  aid  the  weaker  side, 
where  she  cuffed  Flip  and  tugged  at  Munn's  arm  with 
no  mean  skill. 

But  in  the  thick  of  the  fray  she  got  a  knock  on  the 
nose  from  Flip's  elbow,  and  promptly  she  lost  her  hot 
little  temper.  She  did  not  cry,  for  she  had  been  too 
well  trained  by  those  big  brothers,  but  she  screamed, 
"Hang  thee,  varlet!"  and  hurled  herself  upon  Flip. 

She  heard  Longkin  cry,  "Our  right  old  Merrylips!" 

Through  the  haze  that  swam  before  her  eyes,  which 
were  all  dazzled  with  the  knock  that  she  had  got,  she 
saw  Flip's  laughing  face,  as  he  warded  her  off,  and  she 
raged  at  him  for  laughing.  Then,  all  at  once,  she  heard 
her  shrill  little  voice  raging  in  a  dead  stillness,  and  in 
the  stillness  she  heard  a  grave  voice  speak. 

"Sybil!    Little  daughter!" 

Merrylips  let  fall  her  clenched  hands.  Shamefacedly 
she  turned,  and  in  the  doorway  that  opened  on  the 
terrace  she  saw  Lady  Venner  stand. 

"Honored  mother!"  faltered  Merrylips,  and  stum- 
bled through  a  courtesy. 


HER  BIRTHDAY  1 5 

All  in  a  moment  she  longed  to  cry  with  pain  and 
shame  and  fright,  but  she  would  not,  while  her  brothers 
looked  on.  Instead  she  blinked  back  the  tears,  and 
at  a  sign  from  her  mother  started  to  follow  her  into 
the  house. 

"If  it  like  you,  good  mother,  the  fault  was  mine  to 
vex  the  child,"  said  Longkin. 

But  the  mother  answered  sternly,  "Peace!"  and  so 
led  Merrylips  away. 

In  the  cool  parlor,  where  the  long  shadows  of  late 
afternoon  made  the  corners  as  dim  as  if  it  were  twilight, 
Lady  Venner  sat  down  on  the  broad  window-seat. 
Merrylips  stood  meekly  before  her,  and  while  she  waited 
thus  in  the  quiet,  where  the  terrace  and  the  dogs  and 
the  lads  seemed  to  have  drawn  far  away,  she  grew 
aware  that  her  hair  was  tousled,  and  her  hands  were 
soiled  and  scratched.  She  was  so  ashamed  that  she 
cast  down  her  eyes,  and  then  she  blushed  to  see  how  the 
toes  of  her  shoes  were  stubbed.  Stealthily  she  bent 
her  knees  and  tried  to  cover  her  unmaidenly  shoes  with 
the  hem  of  her  petticoat. 

"Little  daughter,"  said  Lady  Venner,  "or  haply 
should  I  say  —  little  son?" 

Then,  in  spite  of  herself,  Merrylips  smiled,  as  she 
was  always  ready  to  do,  for  she  liked  that  title. 

Straightway  Lady  Venner  changed  her  tone. 


16  MERRYLIPS 

"Son  I  must  call  you,"  she  said  gravely,  "for  1 
cannot  recognize  a  daughter  of  mine  in  this  unmannered 
hoiden.  For  more  than  two  months,  Sybil,  I  have 
made  my  plans  to  send  you  where  under  other  tutors 
than  unthinking  lads  you  may  be  schooled  to  gentler 
ways.  What  I  have  seen  this  hour  confirmeth  my 
resolve.     This  day  week  you  will  quit  Walsover." 

"Quit  Walsover  —  and  Munn  and  Flip  and  Long- 
kin  ?  "  Merrylips  repeated ;  but  thanks  to  the  schooling 
of  the  unthinking  lads,  her  brothers,  breathed  hard 
and  did  not  cry. 

"You  will  go,"  said  Lady  Venner,  "to  your  dear 
godmother,  Lady  Sybil,  at  her  house  of  Larkland  in 
the  Weald  of  Sussex.  She  hath  long  been  fain  of  your 
company,  and  in  her  household  I  know  that  you  will 
receive  such  nurture  as  becometh  a  maid.  Now  go 
unto  my  woman  and  be  made  tidy." 

In  silence  Merrylips  courtesied  and  stumbled  from 
the  room.  Just  outside,  in  the  hall,  she  ran  against 
Munn,  who  caught  her  by  the  sleeve. 

"What's  amiss  wi'  thee?"  he  asked.  "Did  our 
mother  chide  thee  roundly,  little  sweetheart?" 

"I  be  going  hence,"  said  Merrylips,  and  blinked  fast. 
"I  be  going  to  mine  old  godmother  —  she  that  sent  me 
a  vild  mammet  —  and  I  know  I'll  hate  her  fairly !     Oh, 
tell  me,  dear  Munn,  where  might  her  house  of  Lark- 
land  be?     Is't  far  from  Walsover?" 


HER  BIRTHDAY  1} 

"A  long  distance,"  said  Munn;  and  his  face  was 
troubled  for  the  little  girl  he  loved. 

"Is't  farther  than  Winchester?"  Merrylips  urged 
in  a  voice  that  to  his  ears  seemed  near  to  breaking. 

He  was  an  honest  lad,  this  Munn;  and  though  he 
did  not  like  to  say  it,  spoke  the  truth. 

"Ay,  dear  heart,"  he  said,  "  'tis  farther  even  than 
Winchester  thou  wilt  go,  but  yet  — " 

Merrylips  tossed  back  her  flyaway  hair. 

"Tell  that  unto  Flip!"  she  cried.  "He  hath  been 
but  unto  Winchester,  and  now  I'll  go  farther  than  Win- 
chester !  I'll  journey  farther  than  Master  Flip,  though 
he  be  a  lad  and  I  but  a  wench !" 

She  lifted  a  stanch  little  face  to  her  brother,  and 
smiled  upon  him,  undismayed. 


CHAPTER  III 

OUT  IN  THE  WORLD 

At  first  Merrylips  found  it  easy  to  be  brave.  She 
was  given  a  pretty  new  cloak  and  gown.  She  was 
pitied  by  the  serving-maids,  and  envied  by  her  sisters, 
and  petted  by  her  brothers,  because  she  was  going  on 
a  long  journey. 

Better  still,  she  found  it  easy  to  be,  not  only  brave, 
but  merry,  like  herself,  on  the  autumn  morning  when 
she  was  mounted  on  a  pillion  behind  one  of  the  serv- 
ing-men in  her  father's  little  cavalcade.  For,  girl 
though  Flip  had  called  her,  she  was  leaving  Walsover 
at  last  on  that  wondrous  journey  to  great  London 
town. 

For  five  long  days  they  rode  among  the  scenes  that 
Merrylips  knew  from  her  father's  tales.  They  passed 
through  fields  that  were  brown  with  autumn,  and  vil- 
lages where  homely  smoke  curled  from  the  chimneys. 
They  clattered  through  towns  where  beggar  children 
ran  at  the  horses'  stirrups  and  whined  for  ha'pennies. 
They  crossed  great  wastes  of  common,  where  Merry- 

;8 


OUT   IN  THE   WORLD  1 9 

lips  half  hoped  that  they  might  meet  with  padders,  so 
sure  was  she  that  her  father  and  his  stout  serving-men 
could  guard  her  from  all  harm. 

For  four  wonderful  nights  they  halted  at  snug  inns, 
where  civil  landladies  courtesied  to  Merrylips.  They 
supped  together,  Merrylips  and  her  father,  and  he  plied 
her  with  cakes  and  cream  and  oyster  pies  that  she  felt 
her  mother  would  have  forbidden.  After  supper  she  sat 
on  his  knee,  while  he  sipped  his  claret  by  the  blazing 
fire,  till  for  very  weariness  she  drooped  her  head  against 
his  shoulder  and  slept.  Then,  if  she  woke  in  the  night, 
she  would  find  herself  laid  in  a  big,  strange  bed,  and 
she  would  wonder  how  she  had  ever  come  there. 

A  happy  journey  it  was,  through  the  clear  autumn 
weather !  But  the  happiest  day  of  all  was  the  one 
when,  toward  sunset,  Merrylips  was  shown  a  pile  of 
roofs,  where  spires  and  towers  rose  sharp  against  the 
pale  glow  of  the  eastern  sky.  Yonder  was  London,  so 
her  father  said. 

A  little  later,  in  the  twilight,  they  were  clattering 
through  paved  streets.  Above  them  frowned  dim 
houses,  and  on  all  sides  were  hurrying  folk  that  jostled 
one  another.  This  was  London,  Merrylips  said  over 
and  over  to  herself,  and  in  the  London  of  her  dreams 
she  planned  to  have  many  gay  hours,  like  those  of  the 
days  that  were  just  passed. 


20  MERRYLIPS 

But  in  this  Merrylips  was  sadly  disappointed.  Next 
morning  Sir  Thomas,  who  had  been  her  playmate 
since  they  left  Walsover,  was  closeted  with  some  of  his 
friends,  —  men  who  wore  long  swords  and  talked 
loudly  of  church  and  king.  He  had  no  time  to  spend 
with  his  little  daughter,  so  Merrylips  had  to  go  walk 
with  Mawkin,  the  stout  Walsover  lass  who  was  to  wait 
upon  her,  and  a  serving-man  who  should  guard  them 
through  the  streets. 

On  this  walk  Merrylips  found  that  though  there 
were  raisins  of  the  sun,  and  oranges,  and  sugar  candy 
in  the  London  shops,  just  as  she  had  dreamed,  these 
sweets  —  unlike  her  dreams !  —  were  to  be  had  only 
by  paying  for  them.  She  found  too  that  the  streets  of 
London  were  rough  and  dirty  and  full  of  rude  folk. 
They  paid  no  heed  to  her  pretty  new  cloak  and  gown, 
but  jostled  her  uncivilly. 

Once  Merrylips  and  her  companions  were  forced  to 
halt  by  a  crowd  of  staring  folk  that  blocked  the  way. 
In  the  midst  of  the  crowd  they  saw  that  a  prentice  lad 
and  a  brisk  young  page  were  hard  at  fisticuffs. 

" Rogue  of  a  Cavalier !"  taunted  the  prentice. 

In  answer  the  other  lad  jeered :  "  Knave  of  a  Round- 
head!" 

Then  the  spectators  took  sides  and  urged  them  on  to 
fight. 


OUT  IN   THE  WORLD  21 

"What  be  they,  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads  that  they 
prate  of,  good  Mawkin?"  asked  Merrylips. 

Mawkin,  who  was  gaping  at  the  fight,  said  tartly 
that  she  knew  not. 

But  the  serving-man,  Stephen  Plasket,  said :  "  'Tis 
thus,  little  mistress:  all  gentlefolk  who  are  for  our 
gracious  king  are  called  by  the  name  of  Cavaliers, 
while  the  vile  knaves  who  would  resist  him  are  Round- 
heads." 

"Then  I  am  a  Cavalier,"  said  Merrylips. 

At  that  moment  Mawkin  cried :  "Lawk!  he  hath  it 
fairly!" 

There  was  the  young  page  tumbled  into  the  mud, 
with  his  nose  a-bleeding ! 

"O  me!"  lamented  Merrylips.  "If  Munn  were 
but  here,  he  would  'a'  learned  that  prentice  boy  a 
lesson,  not  to  mock  at  us  Cavaliers.  I  would  that  my 
brother  Munn  stood  here!" 

Not  till  she  had  spoken  the  words  did  Merrylips 
realize  how  from  her  heart  she  wished  that  Munn  were 
there.  She  wanted  him,  not  only  to  beat  the  rude 
prentice  boy,  but  to  cheer  her  with  the  sight  of  his  face. 
For  the  first  time  she  realized  that  she  longed  to  see 
Munn,  or  even  prim  Pug,  or  any  of  the  dear  folk  that 
she  had  left  at  Walsover. 

When  nacft  she  had  realized  this,  she  found  that 


22  MERRYLIPS 

London  was  a  dreary  place,  and  she  was  tired  of  hei 
journey  in  the  world.  From  that  moment  she  found 
it  quite  useless  to  try  to  be  merry,  and  hard  even  to 
seem  brave,  and  every  hour  she  found  it  harder. 

There  was  the  bad  hour  of  twilight,  when  she  sat  alone 
by  the  fire  in  her  father's  chamber.  She  listened  to  the 
rumble  of  coaches  in  the  street  below  and  the  cry  of 
a  street-seller:  " Hot  fine  oat-cakes,  hot ! "  She  found 
something  in  the  sound  so  doleful  that  she  wanted  to 
cry. 

There  was  the  lonely  hour  when  she  woke  in  the 
night  and  did  not  know  where  she  was.  When  she 
remembered  at  last  that  she  was  in  London,  bound  for 
Larkland  in  Sussex,  she  lay  wide-eyed  and  wondered 
what  would  happen  to  her  at  her  godmother's  house, 
till  through  the  chamber  window  the  dawn  came, 
bleak  and  gray. 

Last,  and  worst,  there  was  the  bitter  hour  when  she 
sat,  perched  on  high  at  Mawkin's  side,  in  a  carrier's 
wagon.  She  looked  down  at  her  father,  and  he  stood 
looking  up  at  her.  She  knew  that  in  a  moment  the 
wagon  would  start  on  its  long  journey  into  Sussex, 
and  he  would  be  left  behind  in  London  town. 

Merrylips  managed  to  smile,  as  she  waved  her  hand 
to  her  father  in  farewell,  but  it  was  an  unsteady  little 
smile.     And  when  once  the  clumsy  wagon  had  lum- 


OUT  IN  THE  WORLD  23 

bered  out  of  the  inn-yard,  and  she  could  no  longer 
catch  a  glimpse  of  her  father's  sturdy  figure,  she  hid 
her  face  against  Mawkin's  shoulder. 

"Cheerly,  mistress  my  pretty!"  comforted  Mawkin. 
"Do  but  look  upon  the  jolly  fairings  your  good  father 
hath  given  you.  If  here  be  not  quince  cakes  —  yes, 
and  gingerbread,  and  comfits!  Mercy  cover  us! 
Comfits  enough  to  content  ye  the  whole  journey,  even 
an  ye  had  ten  mouths  'stead  o'  one.  And  as  I  be 
christom  woman,  here  are  fair  ribbons,  and  such  sweet 
gloves, —  yes,  and  a  silver  shilling  in  a  little  purse  of 
silk.    Do  but  look  thereon !" 

"Oh,  I  care  not  for  none  of  'em,"  said  Merrylips. 
"Leave  me  be,  good  Mawkin!" 

But  all  that  day  Mawkin  chattered.  She  pointed 
out  sheep  and  kine  and  crooked-gabled  houses,  and 
men  that  were  scouring  ditches  or  mending  hedges. 
Indeed,  she  tried  her  best  to  amuse  her  young  mistress. 

Merrylips  found  her  talk  wearisome,  but  next  day, 
when  Mawkin,  who  was  vexed  at  her  dumpishness, 
kept  sulkily  silent,  she  found  the  silence  harder  still 
to  bear.  She  did  not  wish  to  think  too  much  about  her 
godmother,  for  the  nearer  she  came  to  her,  the  more 
afraid  of  her  she  grew.  So,  to  take  up  her  mind,  she 
ate  the  comfits  and  the  cakes  with  which  her  father  had 
heaped  her  lap.     It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  on  the 


24  MERRY  LIPS 

third  day  of  her  journey  she  had  an  ache  in  the  head  that 
was  almost  as  hard  to  bear  as  the  ache  in  her  heart. 

About  mid -afternoon  a  chill,  fine  rain  began  to  fall. 
Mawkin,  all  huddled  in  her  cloak,  slept  by  snatches, 
and  woke  at  the  lurching  of  the  wagon,  and  grumbled 
because  she  was  wakened.  But  Merrylips  dared  not 
sleep  lest  she  tumble  from  her  place.  So  she  sat  clinging 
fast  to  Mawkin' s  cloak  with  her  cold  little  hands,  while 
through  the  drizzling  rain  she  stared  at  the  plashy 
fields  and  the  sheep  that  cowered  in  the  shelter  of  the 
dripping  hedges. 

At  last,  in  the  deepening  twilight,  she  saw  the  dim 
fronts  of  houses  where  candles,  set  in  lanterns,  were 
flaring  gustily.  She  knew  that  the  wagon  had  halted 
in  the  ill-smelling  court  of  an  inn.  She  saw  the  steam 
curl  upward  from  the  horses'  flanks,  and  heard  the  snap 
of  buckles  and  clatter  of  shafts,  as  the  stable-lads 
unhitched  the  wagon. 

"Come,  little  mistress!"  spoke  the  big  carrier,  who 
had  clambered  on  the  wheel  near  Merrylips.  "Here 
we  be,  come  to  the  inn  at  Horsham  and  the  end  of  our 
journey.     Ye  must  light  down." 

"I  will  not !"  cried  Merrylips,  and  clung  to  the  seat 
with  stiffened  hands.  "I'll  sit  here  forever  till  ye  go 
back  unto  London.  I'll  not  bide  here  in  your  loathly 
Sussex.  I  do  hate  your  Sussex.  I'll  not  light  down. 
I'll  not,  I  tell  ye!" 


OUT  IN  THE  WORLD  2$ 

Mawkin,  half  awake,  spoke  sharply:  "Hold  your 
peace,  I  pray  you,  mistress!" 

One  of  the  stable  boys  laughed,  and  with  that  laugh, 
ter  in  her  ears,  Merrylips  felt  herself  lifted  bodily  into 
the  big  carrier's  arms  and  set  down  on  her  feet  in  the 
courtyard.  The  world  was  all  against  her,  she  thought, 
and  it  was  a  world  of  rain  and  darkness  in  which  she 
felt  small  and  weak  and  lonely.  In  sudden  terror  she 
caught  at  the  carrier's  sleeve. 

"Oh,  master,  take  me  back  to  London!"  she  cried. 
"I'll  give  ye  my  new  silver  shilling.  I  cannot  bide  here 
—  indeed,  you  know  not !  I  like  not  your  Sussex  — 
and  I  be  feared  of  mine  old  godmother.  Oh,  master, 
take  me  back  wi'  you  to  my  daddy  in  London  town !" 

Then,  while  she  pleaded,  Merrylips  felt  two  hands, 
eager  hands  but  gentle,  laid  on  her  shoulders. 

"Little  lass!"  said  a  woman's  voice.  "Thou  art 
cold  and  shivering.     Do  thou  come  in  out  of  the  storm." 

"I'm  fain  to  go  back !"   cried  Merrylips. 

She  turned  toward  this  stranger  who  was  friendly, 
but  saw  her  all  blurred  through  a  mist  of  rain  and  of 
tears. 

"All  in  good  time!"  the  kind  voice  went  on.  "If 
thou  art  fain  to  be  gone,  thou  shalt  go,  but  for  now  — 
come  in  from  the  storm." 

Merrylips  went  obediently,  with  her  hand  in  the 


26  MERRYLIPS 

hand  that  was  held  out  to  her.  Too  tired  to  question 
or  to  wonder,  she  found  herself  in  a  snug,  warm  chamber 
where  candles  burned  on  the  table  and  a  fire  snapped 
on  the  hearth.  She  found  herself  seated  in  a  great 
cushioned  chair,  with  the  shoes  slipped  from  her  numbed 
feet  and  the  wet  cloak  drawn  from  her  shoulders. 
She  found  herself  drinking  new  milk  and  eating  wheaten 
bread,  that  tasted  good  after  the  sweets  on  which  she 
had  feasted,  and  always  she  found  her  new  friend  with 
the  kind  voice  moving  to  and  fro  and  ministering  to 
her. 

Shyly  Merrylips  looked  upon  the  stranger.  She  saw 
that  she  was  a  very  old  woman,  no  doubt,  for  her  soft 
brown  hair  was  touched  with  gray,  but  she  had  fresh 
cheeks  and  bright  eyes  and  the  kindest  smile  in  the 
world.  Then  she  saw  the  kind  face  mistily,  and  knew 
that  she  had  nodded  with  sleepiness. 

A  little  later  she  found  herself  laid  in  a  soft  bed, 
between  fair  sheets  of  linen,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  that 
the  stranger,  her  friend,  was  seated  by  the  bedside. 

"Oh,  mistress!"  said  Merrylips,  and  stretched  forth 
her  hand.  "Did  you  mean  it  in  sober  truth  —  that 
you  will  aid  me  to  go  back  to  London  —  away  from 
mine  old  godmother?" 

Then  the  gentlewoman  laughed,  with  eyes  and 
lips. 


OUT  IN  THE   WORLD  2J 

"Oh,  my  little  lass!"  she  said,  and  knelt  and  put 
her  arms  about  Merrylips  where  she  lay.  "Hast  thou 
not  guessed  that  I  am  that  poor  old  godmother  thou 
wouldst  run  from?  I  pray  thee,  dear  child,  stay  with 
me  but  a  little,  for  I  am  sadly  lonely." 

All  in  a  moment,  as  she  looked  into  the  face  that  bent 
above  her,  Merrylips  grew  sorry  that  she  had  thrown  the 
poor  doll  on  the  floor  and  kicked  it  too.  She  felt  almost 
as  if  she  had  struck  a  blow  at  this  kind  soul  who  had 
come  to  befriend  her  when  she  had  felt  so  tired  and  lost. 

She  spoke  no  word,  because  of  the  lump  that  rose  in 
her  throat,  but  she  put  both  arms  about  her  godmother's 
neck. 

And  when  her  godmother  said :  "  We  shall  be  friends, 
then,  little  Merrylips?"  Merrylips  nodded,  with  her 
head  nestled  against  her  godmother's  breast. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  LARKLAND 

Next  day,  when  the  storm  was  over  and  the  sky 
was  a  windy  blue,  Merrylips  rode  in  her  godmother's 
coach  to  her  godmother's  house  of  Larkland.  And 
there  at  Larkland,  with  the  godmother  that  she  had 
so  feared  to  meet,  Merrylips  lived  for  almost  a  year  and 
was  very  happy. 

Larkland,  to  be  sure,  was  a  tiny  house  beside  great 
Walsover.  There  were  no  lads  to  play  with,  and  there 
were  no  dogs,  except  one  fat  old  spaniel.  There  was 
no  great  company  of  serving-men  and  maids  to  watch 
at  their  tasks  and  be  friends  with.  Neither  was  there 
a  going  and  coming  of  guests  and  kinsfolk  to  keep  the 
house  in  a  stir. 

Yet  Merrylips  found  much  to  please  her.  Though 
the  house  was  little,  it  was  very  old.  It  was  said  to 
have  a  hidden  chamber  in  the  wall,  such  as  great  Wals- 
over could  not  boast.  And  with  her  own  eyes  Merry- 
lips could  see  that  there  was  a  moat,  half  choked  with 
water-weeds,  and  a  pond  full  of  carp  that  came  slug- 
gishly to  the  surface  when  crumbs  were  flung  to  them. 

28 


AT   LARKLAND  29 

Though  there  were  not  many  servants,  there  was 
among  them  an  old  butler,  who  all  his  life  had  served 
Lady  Sybil's  father,  the  Duke  of  Barrisden.  He  taught 
Merrylips  to  shoot  at  the  butts  with  a  crossbow,  and 
while  he  taught  her,  told  her  tales  of  how,  as  a  young 
man,  he  had  gone  with  his  Grace,  the  duke,  to  fight 
the  Spaniards  at  Cadiz  and  to  serve  against  the  Irish 
kern  in  Connaught. 

There  was  too  an  old,  old  woman  who  had  been  nurse 
to  Lady  Sybil's  mother.  She  sat  knitting  all  day  in  a 
warm  corner  by  the  kitchen  hearth  or  on  a  sunny  bench 
against  the  garden  wall.  This  old  woman,  in  her  old, 
cracked  voice,  would  sing  to  Merrylips  long  ballads  — 
The  Lord  of  Lorn  and  the  False  Steward,  and  Chevy 
Chace,  and  The  Fair  Flower  of  Northumberland.  At 
such  times  Merrylips  listened  with  round  eyes  and  for- 
got to  miss  her  brothers. 

But  dearer  to  Merrylips  even  than  Roger,  the  butler, 
or  Goody  Trot,  the  old  nurse,  or  even  Mawkin,  her 
own  kind  maid  from  Walsover,  was  her  godmother, 
Lady  Sybil.  For  Lady  Sybil,  dwelling  in  that  forgotten 
corner  of  Sussex,  with  only  her  few  servants,  was,  as  she 
had  said,  a  lonely  woman.  She  had  a  heartful  of  love 
to  give  to  Merrylips,  and  it  was  a  love  that  had  wisdom 
to  find  the  way  to  lead  the  little  maid  to  what  was  for 
her  good.     So  Merrylips,  to  her  own  surprise,  found 


30  MERRYLIPS 

herself  presently  sewing  seams  and  making  tarts  and 
toiling  over  lessons.  In  short,  she  did  all  the  tasks 
that  she  had  hated  to  do  at  Walsover,  yet  now  she  did 
them  happily. 

This  was  partly  because  she  felt  that  she  should  do 
the  bidding  of  her  godmother,  who  so  plainly  loved 
her,  and  partly  because  the  tasks  were  put  before  her 
in  so  pleasant  a  way.  When  she  sewed  seams,  she  was 
learning  to  make  shirts  and  handkerchiefs  for  Long- 
kin  and  Munn  and  Flip.  When  she  baked  a  burnt 
and  heavy  little  pasty,  she  was  learning  to  cook  —  a 
knowledge  that  in  camp  might  prove  most  useful  to  a 
gentleman.  When  she  struggled  with  inky  pothooks, 
she  was  learning  to  write  long  letters  to  her  dear,  big 
brothers. 

There  were  other  lessons,  too,  that  Merrylips  had 
not  had  at  Walsover.  Lady  Sybil  taught  her  Latin, 
in  which  she  was  herself  an  apt  scholar,  and  Merry- 
lips  set  herself  eagerly  to  learn  this  tongue,  because  it 
was  what  her  brothers  studied. 

Lady  Sybil  gave  her  easy  lessons  in  surgery  and  the 
use  of  simples.  Sometimes  she  even  let  her  be  present 
when  she  herself  dressed  the  hurts  or  prescribed  for 
the  ills  of  the  poor  folk  of  Cuckstead,  the  little  hamlet 
that  lay  hard  by  the  walls  of  Larkland.  This  art 
Merrylips  was  glad  to  be  taught,  and  she  spoke  often  of 


AT  LARKLAND  3 1 

the  use  it  would  be  to  her  when  she  was  a  grown  lad  and 
went  to  the  wars. 

Somehow,  when  once  she  had  put  this  secret  hope  into 
words  and  her  godmother  had  not  laughed,  Merrylips 
began  herself  to  feel  that  such  a  thought  was  babyish. 
In  those  quiet  days  at  Larkland  she  began  to  grow  up 
and  to  realize,  with  bitter  disappointment,  that  she  was 
likely  to  grow  up  a  girl.  She  talked  of  this  sometimes 
at  twilight  with  her  godmother,  and  was  much  com- 
forted. 

"For  thou  mayst  have  all  the  true  virtues  of  a  lad, 
dear  little  heart,"  Lady  Sybil  would  say.  "Thou  canst 
be  brave  and  truthful  as  any  of  thy  brothers,  not  fear- 
ing to  bear  hard  knocks,  but  fearing  to  bestow  them  on 
any  that  be  weaker  than  thyself.  I  do  not  chide  thee 
that  thou  wouldst  be  a  man,  my  Merrylips,  but  I  would 
have  thee  more  than  that  —  a  gentleman." 

So  Merrylips  tried  to  be  a  gentleman.  She  tried 
not  to  show  a  naughty  temper,  nor  speak  rudely  to  the 
serving-folk,  but  to  be  courteous  and  considerate  al- 
ways of  those  about  her.  And  at  times  she  found  this 
a  far  harder  task  than  sewing  seams  or  reading  Latin. 

But  life  at  Larkland  was  far  from  being  all  tasks. 
There  were  hours  when  Lady  Sybil  played  to  Merry- 
lips upon  the  lute  or  the  virginals  and  sang  sweet  old 
songs.     There  were  other  hours,  while   they  sat  to- 


32  MERRYLIPS 

gether  at  their  sewing,  when  Lady  Sybil  told  wondrous 
tales  of  what  she  had  done  when  she  lived  with  her 
father  in  Paris  and  at  the  Hague  and  in  great  London 
town. 

"I  had  no  brothers  as  thou  hast,  Merrylips,"  said 
Lady  Sybil,  "but  I  had  one  dear  sister,  Venetia,  and 
a  sad  madcap  she  was !  By  times  thou  dost  mind  me 
of  her,  honey." 

One  wintry  afternoon,  when  she  had  talked  for  a 
long  time  of  the  Lady  Venetia's  pranks  and  plays  in 
their  girlhood  together,  Lady  Sybil  fetched  a  miniature 
from  a  cabinet  in  her  chamber  and  showed  it  to  Merry- 
lips.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  girl  of  much  the  same  age 
as  sister  Puss,  Merrylips  thought  —  a  beautiful  girl, 
with  soft  brown  hair  parted  from  a  white  forehead,  and 
eyes  that  laughed,  and  a  finger  laid  upon  her  rosy  lips. 
On  the  upraised  finger,  Merrylips  noticed,  was  an  odd 
ring  of  two  hearts  entwined,  wrought  in  what  seemed 
dull  silver. 

"This  is  my  sister  Venetia,"  said  Lady  Sybil.  "So 
she  looked  at  eighteen,  save  that  she  was  fairer  than 
any  picture." 

"  She  is  not  so  fair  as  you,  godmother  mine  !"  Merry- 
lips declared. 

Lady  Sybil  smiled  in  answer,  but  faintly.  Indeed, 
as  she  looked  upon  the  picture,  she  sighed. 


AT   LARKLAND  33 

"And  is  she  dead,  this  sister  you  did  love?"  Merry- 
lips  hushed  her  voice  to  ask. 

"Ay,  long  years  dead,"  Lady  Sybil  answered. 
"  'Tis  a  piteous  tale  that  some  day  thou  shalt  hear, 
but  not  till  thou  art  older." 

She  put  away  the  miniature  and  spoke  no  more  of  the 
Lady  Venetia.  But  all  the  rest  of  the  day  she  seemed 
burdened  with  heavy  thoughts. 

But  at  most  times  Lady  Sybil,  although  she  seemed 
to  Merrylips  so  very  old,  was  a  gay  companion.  At 
evening,  when  the  fire  danced  on  the  hearth  and  the 
reflected  glow  danced  on  the  oak  panels  of  the  parlor 
wainscot,  she  would  dance  too,  and  she  taught  Merry- 
lips  to  dance.  Sometimes  even  she  would  play  at 
games  of  hunt  and  hide,  all  up  and  down  the  dim  cor- 
ridors and  shadowy  chambers  of  the  old  house.  When 
they  were  tired,  Lady  Sybil  and  Merrylips  would  sit 
by  the  hearth  and  roast  crabs  or  crack  nuts,  and  Merry- 
lips, like  a  little  gentleman,  would  pick  out  the  nut- 
meats  for  Lady  Sybil. 

By  day,  in  the  pale  sunlight,  they  would  walk  in 
the  garden  and  scatter  crumbs  for  the  birds  that  found 
it  hard  to  live  in  the  rimy  days  of  winter.  Or  they 
would  stroll  through  tiny  Cuckstead  village,  where  Lady 
Sybil  would  talk  with  the  cottage  women,  and  Merry- 
lips would  talk  with  the  rosy  village  lads  of  lark-traps 


34  MERRYLIPS 

and  badger  hunts  and  the  best  way  in  which  to  covei 
a  hand-ball. 

So  the  days  trod  on  one  another's  heels.  Merry- 
lips  heard  the  waits  sing  beneath  her  chamber  window 
on  a  Christmas  eve  of  frosty  stars.  Almost  the  next 
week,  it  seemed,  Candlemas  had  come,  and  she  had 
found  a  pale  snowdrop  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the 
garden  and  run  to  lay  it  in  Lady  Sybil's  hand.  Then 
each  week,  almost  each  day,  she  found  a  new  flower  by 
the  moist  brookside,  or  heard  a  new  bird-note  in  the 
budding  hedgerows,  till  spring  had  come  in  earnest, 
and  it  was  Whitsunday,  and  in  good  Sussex  fashion 
Lady  Sybil  and  Merrylips  dined  on  roast  veal  and 
gooseberry  pudding. 

From  time  to  time,  through  these  happy  months, 
Merrylips  had  had  letters,  all  her  own,  from  her  kindred. 
Her  mother  had  written  to  bid  her  remember  her  duty 
to  her  godmother,  and  Pug  to  say  that  she  was  reading 
A  Garland  of  Virtuous  Dames.  Munn  had  written 
twice,  and  each  time  had  said  he  hoped  that  there 
would  soon  be  war  in  England,  for  'twas  time  that  the 
king's  men  schooled  the  rebel  Roundheads  to  their 
duty.  Then  Merrylips  remembered  the  two  lads  that 
she  had  seen  at  fisticuffs  in  the  London  street,  and 
wondered  if  it  were  true  that  outside  of  peaceful  Lark- 
land  grown  men  were  making  ready  to  fly  at  one  an- 
other's throats,  and  found  it  hard  to  believe. 


AT  LARKLAND  35 

But  soon  after  Whitsuntide  Merrylips  had  a  letter 
from  Flip,  which  Lady  Sybil  read  aloud  to  her.  Flip 
wrote  boastfully  that  he  too  was  soon  to  see  London, 
as  well  as  Merrylips,  only  he,  being  a  lad,  was  to  ride 
thither  as  a  soldier.  Father  was  raising  a  troop  to 
fight  for  the  king,  and  he  and  Longkin  and  Munn  were 
going  to  the  wars.  Maybe,  he  added  loftily,  he  would 
send  Merrylips  a  pretty  fairing  from  London,  when  he 
had  entered  the  town  as  a  conqueror. 

"Oh,"  cried  Merrylips,  most  dismally.  "I  would 
I  were  a  lad !  Here '11  be  brave  fighting,  and  Flip 
will  have  a  hand  therein  while  I  must  sit  at  home. 
I  do  so  envy  him!" 

There  Lady  Sybil  hushed  her,  laying  an  arm  about 
her  neck. 

"Little  one,"  she  said,  "thou  knowest  not  what  thou 
dost  say.  War  in  the  land  meaneth  burned  houses 
and  wasted  fields  and  slain  men  —  men  dear  unto 
their  daughters  and  their  sisters,  even  as  thy  father 
and  thy  brothers  are  dear  unto  thee.  Oh,  little  heart, 
instead  of  wishing  to  look  on  the  sorry  work  of  war, 
pray  rather  that  peace,  even  at  this  late  hour,  be  granted 
to  our  poor  England." 

/Now  Merrylips  understood  little  of  this,  except  that 
she  grieved  her  godmother  when  she  wished  for  war. 
So  she  did  not  speak  again  in  that  strain,  but  in  her 


36  MERRYLIPS 

heart  she  hoped,  if  war  must  come,  that  she  might 
somehow  have  a  share  in  the  fighting,  as  well  as  Flip. 
She  even  at  night,  when  she  had  prayed  for  peace  as 
Lady  Sybil  bade,  added  a  prayer  of  her  own :  — 

"But  if  there  be  any  tall  soldiers  must  needs  come 
into  these  parts,  grant  that  I  may  be  brought  to  have  a 
sight  of  'em !" 

Once,  in  a  roundabout  way,  she  asked  Mawkin  if 
this  prayer  were  likely  to  be  granted. 

"Lawk,  no!"  cried  Mawkin.  "There's  be  no  sol- 
diery come  into  this  nook-shotten  corner.  Put  aside 
that  whimsey,  mistress." 

But  Merrylips  still  said  her  little  prayer,  and,  in 
spite  of  Mawkin,  it  was  answered,  for  before  the  month 
was  out  two  of  the  king's  soldiers  had  indeed  come  to 
Larkland. 


CHAPTER  V 

AMONG   THE  GOLDEN  GORSE 

Yet  for  all  her  hoping  and  wishing  Merrylips  did 
not  recognize  her  soldiers  of  the  king,  when  first  she 
set  eyes  on  them.  She  had  been  out  with  Mawkin, 
one  shimmery  hot  afternoon,  to  gather  broom-flowers 
on  Cuckstead  common.  She  had  also  found  a  lively 
little  green  snake,  which  she  was  carrying  home  in  her 
handkerchief  to  show  to  her  godmother. 

"And  indeed  my  lady  will  not  thank  you  for  the  sight 
of  such  vermin!"  protested  Mawkin.  "It  giveth  me 
creeps  but  to  look  thereon.  Put  it  down,  do  'ee  now, 
there's  my  lovey  mistress." 

Merrylips  shook  her  head,  and  held  fast  to  her 
handkerchief.  So  intent  was  she  upon  the  snake  that 
she  did  not  look  up  till  she  heard  a  sudden  little  cry 
from  Mawkin.  At  that  moment  they  had  come  to  the 
top  of  a  little  swell  of  land,  too  gentle  to  be  called  a  hill, 
whence  they  could  look  down  on  the  roofs  of  Larkland 
and  the  thatched  cottages  of  the  village  that  nestled 
against  its  wall.  They  had  reached  indeed  the  highest 
point  of  Cuckstead  common,  and  there,  couched  among 

37 


38  MERRYLIPS 

the  golden  gorse,  a  boy  was  lying  and  a  man  was  sitting 
by  his  side. 

So  well  were  the  strangers  screened  that  Mawkin 
had  not  spied  them  till  she  was  almost  upon  them. 
She  gave  a  start  of  natural  terror  and  laid  her  hand  on 
Merrylips'  shoulder. 

"Trudge  briskly,  mistress!"  she  bade,  in  a  low 
voice.     "I  like  not  the  look  of  yonder  fellow." 

As  she  spoke,  Mawkin  glanced  anxiously  at  the  roofs 
of  the  village,  which  were  a  good  half  mile  away  across 
the  lonely  common. 

But  Merrylips,  who  knew  nothing  of  fear,  halted 
short.  To  be  sure,  the  man  seemed  a  rough  fellow. 
He  was  low-browed,  with  a  shock  of  fair  hair  and  a 
sunburnt  face.  His  leathern  breeches  and  frieze 
doublet  were  soiled  and  travel-stained,  and  he  had 
laid  on  the  ground  beside  him  a  bundle  wrapped  in  a 
handkerchief  and  a  great  knotted  cudgel.  He  looked 
as  Merrylips  fancied  a  padder  might  look,  but  there 
was  a  helpless  distress  in  his  pale  eyes  that  made  her, 
in  spite  of  Mawkin's  whisper,  turn  to  him. 

"Were  you  fain  to  speak  unto  me?"  asked  Merry- 
lips. 

The  man  peered  upon  her  stupidly  beneath  his  thatch 
of  light  hair,  and  seemed  to  grope  for  words. 

"Ja,   ja,   gracious  fr'aulein,"   he   said,   in  a   thick, 


AMONG  THE  GOLDEN  GORSE  39 

foreign  speech.  "  Rupert,  mein  kindlein  —  he  beeth 
outworn  —  sick." 

At  that  the  boy,  who  had  lain  face  down  among  the 
flowering  gorse,  turned  languidly  and  lifted  his  head. 
He  was  a  young  boy,  not  so  old  as  Flip.  He  did  not 
look  like  the  man,  for  his  hair  was  dark  and  soft,  and 
his  eyes  were  gray.  Indeed  he  would  have  been  a 
handsome  boy,  for  all  his  mean  garments,  if  his  eyes 
had  not  been  dulled  and  his  face  flushed  with  weariness 
or  with  fever. 

"Let  be,  Claus!"  he  said,  in  a  weak  voice.  "I'll 
be  better  straightway,  and  then  we'll  trudge." 

But  as  he  spoke,  he  let  his  dark  head  sink  on  his  arms 
once  more. 

"He  cannot  lie  in  the  fields,"  the  man  said  thickly. 
"Gracious  fr'aulein  —  bring  us  to  shelter !" 

"Haply  you  may  find  charitable  folk  in  the  next 
village,"  struck  in  Mawkin,  who  still  was  tugging  at 
Merrylips'  arm.     "Come,  mistress!" 

But  Merrylips  cried,  "Fie  upon  you,  Mawkin! 
There's  shelter  at  Larkland  for  all  who  ask  it.  An 
you  can  bear  your  son  thither,  good  fellow,  my  god- 
mother will  make  you  welcome." 

The  man  stared,  as  if  he  were  slow  to  understand, 
but  the  boy  dragged  himself  to  his  knees. 

"She  saith  —  there's  shelter,"  he  panted.  "Take 
me  thither,  good  Claus." 


40  MERRYLIPS 

Slowly  they  set  out  for  Larkland,  all  four  together, 
for  Merrylips  would  not  leave  her  chance  guests,  and 
Mawkin,  though  she  grumbled  beneath  her  breath, 
would  not  leave  Merrylips.  Claus,  as  the  man  was 
called,  half  carried  the  boy  Rupert,  holding  him  up 
with  one  arm  about  him,  and  Merrylips  walked  at  the 
boy's  side,  and  cheered  him  as  well  as  she  could  by 
repeating  that  it  was  not  far  to  Larkland. 

So  they  passed  down  the  gentle  slope  of  the  common, 
with  their  shadows  long  upon  the  right  hand,  through 
the  heavy  scent  of  the  gorse,  amid  the  droning  of  bees. 
Always  thereafter  the  warm,  fruity  fragrance  of  gorse 
brought  to  Merrylips  the  picture  of  the  common,  all 
golden  with  bloom,  the  feel  of  the  sun  upon  her  neck, 
and  the  sight  of  Rupert's  strained  and  suffering  face, 
that  was  so  sadly  at  variance  with  the  gay  weather. 

More  than  once  they  had  to  pause  and  sit  by  the 
path,  while  the  lad  rested,  leaning  his  heavy  head  upon 
Claus' s  shoulder.  The  first  time  Merrylips  tried  to 
comfort  him  by  showing  him  the  little  green  snake, 
but  he  would  scarcely  look  upon  it,  so  in  disappoint- 
ment she  let  it  go  free. 

After  that  she  talked  with  Claus.  Had  they  come 
from  far,  she  asked  him  ? 

"From  beyond  seas,"  he  answered  with  a  clumsy 
gesture  to  the  south.     "Yonder  —  they  call  it  Bright- 


More  than  once  they  had  to  pause  and  sit  by  the  path, 
while  the  lad  rested. 


AMONG  THE  GOLDEN  GORSE  4 1 

helmstone  —  we  came  a-land.  We  are  bound  to  the 
king's  army." 

"Ay,  the  king,"  said  Rupert,  suddenly,  and  opened 
his  eyes.  "I  am  going  to  fight  for  the  king  of  Eng- 
land, even  as  my  father  fought.  For,"  said  he,  and  his 
eyes  sought  Merrylips'  face,  yet  seemed  not  to  see  her, 
"I  am  English  born." 

Claus  hushed  him  there,  speaking  in  a  tongue  that 
Merrylips  did  not  know,  but  she  had  scarcely  heeded 
Rupert's  last  words  in  her  joy  at  finding  out  that  these 
strangers  were  recruits  for  the  king's  army. 

"Oh!"  said  she.  "You  are  going  to  the  wars, 
even  as  my  brothers  will  go." 

Jealously  she  looked  at  Rupert,  who  indeed  seemed 
very  childish  as  he  rested  in  the  circle  of  Claus's  arm. 

"He  is  but  little  older  than  I,"  said  Merrylips. 
"Can  he  fight?" 

"One  winter  in  the  camps  he  hath  been  with  me,  in 
Bohemia,"  Claus  answered,  when  he  had  taken  time 
to  understand  her  question.  "When  he  is  taller,  ja, 
he  will  be  a  trooper,  and  a  gallant  one." 

"I'll  be  no  trooper,"  said  the  boy,  scarcely  raising 
his  eyelids.  "I'll  be  captain  of  a  troop,  as  was  my 
father." 

"  Fine  prattle  for  a  beggar  brat !  "  Mawkin  grumbled. 

But  Merrylips  gazed  with  adoring  eyes  on  the  big, 


42  MERRYLIPS 

rough  man,  who  no  longer  seemed  to  her  like  a  padder, 
and  the  slender  boy,  who  talked  so  lightly  of  fighting 
for  the  king  and  winning  captaincies. 

"  'Tis  happy  chance,"  said  she,  "that  you  came  unto 
Larkland,  for  we  are  here  all  Cavaliers,  even  as  your- 
selves, and  were  I  a  lad,  I'd  go  unto  the  wars  with  you." 

Then  she  met  Rupert's  eyes,  fixed  full  upon  her,  and 
for  the  first  time,  in  all  his  pain,  Rupert  smiled,  seeing 
her  earnestness,  and  his  smile  was  winning. 

"I  would  you  were  a  lad  and  my  brother,  mistress !" 
he  said. 

Mawkin  gave  a  little  snort. 

"A  landleaper  such  as  thou  a  brother  to  Sir  Thomas 
Venner's  daughter  !"  she  cried. 

But  Merrylips  leaned  nearer  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
boy's  limp  fingers. 

"You  are  coming  unto  Larkland  to  be  made  weU," 
she  said,  "and  oh,  Rupert!  in  very  truth  we'll  be  as 
good  friends  as  if  we  were  indeed  born  brothers." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  TART  THAT  WAS  NEVER  BAKED 

Welladay,  as  Merrylips  would  herself  have  said, 
'twas  passing  strange,  the  way  of  wise,  grown  folk, 
even  of  such  kind  folk  as  her  own  dear  godmother ! 

Merrylips  had  thought  that  the  bed  in  the  great 
chamber  would  be  made  ready  at  once  for  Rupert. 
She  had  thought  that  she  herself  should  be  allowed  to 
sit  by  him  and  tend  him,  as  if  he  had  been  indeed  her 
brother.  But  instead  Lady  Sybil,  with  her  usual 
kindness  for  the  sick  and  needy,  neither  more  nor  less, 
bade  make  a  bed  for  the  boy  in  the  chamber  above  the 
ox-house,  where  some  of  the  farm-servants  used  to 
lodge.  And  though  she  went  herself  to  see  that  he  was 
made  comfortable,  she  would  not  let  Merrylips  go  near 
him. 

"But  I  thought  'twould  pleasure  you,"  Merrylips 
faltered,  "to  aid  one  that  was  a  soldier  to  the  king." 

"And  so  it  doth,  sweetheart,"  said  Lady  Sybil, 
and  bent  to  kiss  her.  "Thou  didst  well,  no  doubt,  to 
bring  the  poor  lad  hither.  But  ere  I  let  thee  speak 
with  him  further,  I  must  know  whether  his  illness  be 

43 


44  MERRYLIPS 

such  that  thou  mightst  take  it,  and  moreover  I  must 
know  what  manner  of  lad  is  he." 

Lady  Sybil  spoke  with  her  own  kind  smile,  but  as 
she  turned  away  Merrylips  saw  that  a  shadow  of  trouble 
was  on  her  face. 

A  little  dashed  in  spirits,  though  she  could  scarcely 
say  why,  she  ran  to  Goody  Trot  for  comfort.  Up  and 
down  the  many  stairs  of  Larkland  she  sought  in  vain 
for  the  old  woman,  till  at  last,  as  a  most  unlikely  place, 
she  looked  into  her  chamber.  And  there  she  found 
Goody  Trot,  all  in  a  flutter,  busied  in  sewing  a  tawdry 
necklace  and  three  broad  pieces  into  the  covering  of 
her  bolster. 

"Never  do  I  look  to  see  the  light  of  morn!"  cried 
the  poor  old  soul,  as  soon  as  she  saw  Merrylips.  "We's 
all  be  robbed  of  goods  and  gear  and  slain  as  well,  with 
two  murderous  Spanish  spies  lying  beneath  our  roof." 

It  was  useless  for  Merrylips  to  say  that  Claus  and 
Rupert  were  neither  spies  nor  Spaniards. 

They  were  foreign  folk,  were  they  not,  Goody  Trot 
asked.  Go  to,  then !  All  foreigners  were  Spaniards, 
and  had  not  the  Spaniards,  in  her  girlhood,  sent  a  great 
fleet  to  conquer  England  ?  Now  that  there  were  rumors 
of  war  in  the  air,  Goody  Trot  was  sure  that  the  Span- 
iards were  coming  again,  and  that  Claus  and  Rupert 
were  spies,  sent  before  the  general  army. 


THE  TART  THAT   WAS  NEVER   BAKED  45 

It  was  almost  as  sad  when  Merrylips  left  the  old 
woman  and  sought  out  Roger,  the  butler.  She  found 
him  loading  an  old  snaphance,  over  which  he  cocked 
his  head  wisely.  These  were  troublous  times,  he  hinted, 
and  there  were  those  not  a  thousand  miles  away  who 
might  be  fain  to  see  the  inside  of  Larkland.  Let  them 
but  try,  and  they  should  see  more  than  they  bargained 
on,  he  ended,  with  a  grim  chuckle,  as  he  fondled  his 
snaphance. 

"But  they  are  friends  unto  us,  Rupert  and  Claus," 
cried  Merrylips.  "They  are  soldiers  to  the  king 
whom  we  serve." 

"And  how  know  you  that,  mistress,"  asked  the  old 
man,  "save  by  their  own  telling?  And  how  know 
you  that  they  tell  the  truth?" 

In  all  her  life  Merrylips  had  never  thought  that  any 
one  could  really  lie.  Wicked  people  did  so,  she  had 
been  told,  but  she  had  never  dreamed  that  she  herself 
should  ever  know  such  people.  It  hurt  her  now  to  be- 
lieve that  Rupert  could  have  lied  to  her  who  had  trusted 
him.  Yet  if  he  had  not  lied,  Roger,  her  tried  old  friend, 
who  called  him  false,  was  harsh  and  cruel. 

It  was  a  torn  and  tossed  little  heart  that  Merrylips 
carried  to  her  godmother  to  be  quieted,  at  the  hour  of 
twilight  when  they  usually  talked  together. 

"It  is  not  true,"  she  said  stormily.     "Oh,  dear  god- 


46  MERRYLIPS 

mother,  now  that  you  have  seen  Rupert,  you  know  it 
is  not  true  —  the  evil  things  they  all  are  saying  of  him." 

"I  know  that  he  is  ill  and  weary,  poor  lad!"  said 
Lady  Sybil,  but  when  Merrylips  would  have  protested 
further,  she  hushed  her. 

"Think  not  too  harshly  of  thine  old  friends  that  they 
suspect  this  new  friend  thou  hast  made,"  she  counselled. 
"Remember  these  are  days  when  every  man  in  this 
poor  country  doth  suspect  his  fellow  —  when  brother  is 
arrayed  against  brother.  We  know  not  whence  these 
two  strangers  come." 

"Claus  told  me — "  Merrylips  began. 

"Ay,"  said  Lady  Sybil,  "he  told  thee  somewhat, 
even  as  thou  didst  tell  it  unto  me,  but,  child,  when  I 
questioned  him,  he  unsaid  much  that  he  had  said 
aforetime." 

Then,  touched  by  the  little  girl's  sorrowful  silence, 
Lady  Sybil  made  haste  to  add :  — 

"It  may  be  the  poor  soul  was  but  confused  and 
frightened.  He  seemeth  none  too  ready  of  wit,  and 
hath  small  skill  in  our  language.  In  any  case,  my 
dear,  time  will  show  whether  he  be  true  man  or  false, 
and  to  time  we'll  leave  the  proof." 

But  at  eight  years  old  it  is  not  easy  to  leave  a  small 
matter  to  time,  let  alone  so  great  a  matter  as  the  prov- 
ing of  a  dear  new  friend.     Lady  Sybil  might  go  com- 


THE  TART  THAT   WAS   NEVER   BAKED  47 

fortably  to  her  bed,  but  for  Merrylips  that  night  there 
was  no  rest.  Between  dozing  and  dreaming  and 
waking  to  doze  again,  she  thought  about  Rupert,  her 
little  soldier  of  the  king. 

So  much  to  heart  she  took  the  charge  of  falseness 
that  all  the  household  made  against  him  that  she  felt 
as  if  he  must  somehow  know  of  that  charge  and  suffer 
under  it.  She  longed  to  do  something  to  show  him 
that  she,  at  least,  believed  in  him.  Sleepily  she  won- 
dered which  one  of  her  treasures  she  might  give  him  by 
way  of  comfort.  Should  it  be  her  dear  whittle,  or  her 
best  ball,  or  her  own  crossbow  ? 

The  light  of  the  summer  dawn  was  just  breaking  in 
the  chamber  when  Merrylips  sat  up  in  her  bed.  She 
had  been  struck  with  a  fine  idea.  She  would  give 
Rupert  a  cherry  tart  of  her  own  baking.  He  would  like 
a  cherry  tart,  she  knew.  Any  boy  would !  Besides, 
she  must  put  herself  to  some  pains  to  bake  it,  and  she 
was  glad  to  sacrifice  herself  for  the  sake  of  poor  Rupert 
whom  every  one  distrusted. 

As  soon  as  Merrylips  had  made  up  her  mind,  she 
began  to  wonder  why  she  should  not  rise  at  once  and 
go  pluck  the  cherries  for  the  tart.  Then  she  decided 
that  that  would  be  a  very  wise  thing  to  do,  —  indeed, 
that  she  ought  to  do  it,  and  by  such  industry  she  should 
greatly  please  her  godmother. 


48  MERRYLIPS 

So  up  she  got,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
dressed  herself  swiftly.  She  tied  a  little  hood  over  her 
flyaway  hair,  and  an  apron  round  her  waist  to  hold  the 
cherries.  Then  she  slipped  out  at  the  garden  door, 
just  as  the>  cocks  were  crowing,  and  ran  through  the 
dewy  grass  to  the  great  tree  in  the  corner  of  the  garden, 
where  the  duke  cherries  grew. 

When  once  she  was  seated  on  high  among  the 
branches,  Merrylips  could  look  over  the  wall  of  the 
garden.  On  her  right  hand  she  saw  the  ox-house  and 
the  wain-house  and  the  stable,  all  faintly  gray  in  the 
morning  light.  Almost  beneath  her  ran  a  footpath 
from  these  outbuildings.  It  skirted  the  garden  wall 
until  it  reached  the  corner  where  stood  the  duke  cherry 
tree,  and  there  it  led  into  the  fields. 

With  her  eyes  Merrylips  followed  this  path.  It 
made  a  narrow  thread  of  darkness  among  the  grasses 
that  were  white  with  dew,  until  it  was  lost  in  a  hazel 
copse.  Beyond  the  copse  the  sun  was  rising,  and  the 
sky  was  flushed  with  a  strong  red  that  dazzled  her  eyes, 
so  that  she  had  to  turn  them  away. 

Just  at  that  moment  Merrylips  heard  a  sound  of 
cautious  footsteps  on  the  path  below,  and  a  hoarse 
exclamation.  She  looked  down,  but  she  was  so  dazzled 
that  for  a  second  she  could  not  see  clearly.  Then  on 
the  path  below  she  saw  Rupert  standing.     She  was 


THE  TART  THAT   WAS  NEVER  BAKED  49 

surprised,  not  only  to  see  him  there,  but  to  see  him  alone, 
for  she  had  thought  that  the  voice  that  she  had  heard 
was  not  his,  but  Claus's. 

Still,  she  could  not  stop  to  wonder  about  this,  for 
here  was  Rupert,  looking  up  at  her  with. a  piteous, 
startled  face.  She  could  not  bear  that  for  a  single 
minute  he  should  think  her  unfriendly,  like  the  rest  of 
the  household. 

"  Good-morrow,  Rupert ! "  she  called  gayly.  "You're 
early  afoot.  Fie !  So  ill  as  you  are,  you  should  lie 
snug  abed.     My  godmother  will  be  vexed  with  you." 

For  a  moment  Rupert  thrummed  his  battered  cap 
and  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"I  stole  forth.  I  was  starved  for  a  sup  o'  fresh  air," 
he  muttered.     "But  now  —  I  will  go  back." 

"Best  so!"  nodded  Merrylips.  "And  oh,  Rupert!" 
she  leaned  from  her  perch  to  add:  "Ere  noontime  I'll 
have  something  rare  to  show  you." 

He  looked  up  at  her  then,  and  blinked  fast  with  his 
gray  eyes.  If  he  had  been  a  younger  boy,  she  would 
have  said  that  he  was  almost  crying. 

So  sorry  did  she  feel  for  him  that  she  was  very  near 
telling  him  about  the  cherry  tart,  but  she  checked  her- 
self, and  tried  another  means  of  comfort. 

"Rupert,"  said  she,  "would  you  like  to  see  my  cross- 
bow ?     Old  Roger  gave  't  me,  —  ay,  and  I  can  hit  the 


50  MERRYLIPS 

white  at  twenty  paces.  Would  it  pleasure  you  to  see 
it?" 

"Will  you  go  now  to  fetch  it?"  Rupert  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

Merrylips  nodded,  and  tossed  him  a  cluster  of  cherries. 

"Do  you  wait  me  here,"  she  bade,  as  she  made  ready 
to  climb  down  from  the  tree.  "You  will  await  me, 
Rupert?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground  beneath  the  gar- 
den wall,  —  the  little  strip  of  ground  that  Merrylips 
could  not  see.  After  a  moment  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  then,  as  Merrylips  swung  herself  downward  from 
branch  to  branch,  she  lost  sight  of  him. 

In  breathless  haste  Merrylips  ran  to  her  chamber. 
There  she  flung  down  the  cherries,  and  bundled  into 
her  apron  her  crossbow  and  her  ball  and  her  top  and  all 
her  other  treasures. 

Then  out  she  posted,  in  the  light  that  now  was 
broadening,  and  ran  through  the  garden  gate  into  the 
path  to  the  spot  where  she  had  left  Rupert.  She 
found  footprints  in  the  gravel,  and  under  the  wall  the 
elder  bushes  were  crushed  as  if  a  man  had  crouched 
there,  but  she  found  no  other  sign  of  human  creature. 

Sadly  enough  Merrylips  trudged  back  to  her  cham- 
ber and  put  away  the  playthings  that  Rupert  had  not 
cared  to  see.     She  felt  that  she  should  have  been  angry 


THE  TART  THAT   WAS  NEVER   BAKED  5 1 

with  him,  if  it  were  not  that  she  was  his  only  friend  in 
Larkland  and  must  be  faithful  to  him.  And  perhaps, 
she  tried  to  excuse  him,  he  had  been  too  ill  to  stay 
longer  out-of-doors.  She  did  not  blame  him  for  going 
back  to  his  bed,  and  she  would  make  him  the  cherry 
tart,  just  the  same. 

When  the  rest  of  the  household  rose  for  the  day, 
Merrylips  said  no  word  of  Rupert,  for  at  heart  she  was 
still  a  little  hurt.  But  she  took  the  cherries  in  a  pipkin 
and  sat  down  to  stone  them  on  the  shady  bench  by  the 
garden  door.  She  was  thinking,  as  she  did  so,  how  all 
would  be  made  right  between  her  and  Rupert,  when 
she  carried  him  the  little  tart.  Perhaps  he  would  even 
say  that  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  broken  his  promise 
to  her. 

Just  then  Mawkin  came  bustling  to  her  side. 

"Lackaday,  mistress,"  cried  Mawkin,  "but  you  are 
lessoned  fairly,  and  mayhap  next  time  you'll  hark  to 
the  words  of  them  that  be  older  and  wiser  than  you, 
a-vexing  her  sweet  Ladyship  and  a-setting  the  house  by 
the  ears,  as  you  have  done,  with  fetching  in  of  graceless 
vagrom  wretches,  no  whit  better  than  they  should  be !" 

"You  have  no  right  so  to  speak  of  Rupert!"  cried 
Merrylips,  hotly. 

"And  have  I  not?"  Mawkin  took  her  up.  "Look 
you  now,  my  lady  her  kind  self  hath  just  been  unto  the 


52  MERRYLIPS 

ox-house  to  minister  to  that  vile  boy,  and  he  and  the 
man  are  both  gone  hence  —  stolen  away  like  thieves 
under  cover  of  night.  Now  what  do  you  say  unto  that, 
Mistress  Merrylips?" 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  MIDST  OF  ALARUMS 

Indeed,  what  could  poor  Merrylips  say?  Even  she 
must  admit  that  Rupert  had  deceived  her. 

At  the  very  moment  when  he  promised  to  wait  for 
her,  he  had  been  stealing  away  from  Larkland,  like  the 
spy  that  Goody  Trot  and  Roger  and  Mawkin  called 
him.  No  doubt  he  had  Claus  with  him  all  the  time, 
crouched  in  the  bushes  underneath  the  wall.  No  doubt 
he  had  let  her  fetch  the  crossbow  only  to  get  rid  of  her, 
that  she  might  not  see  their  flight.  From  first  to  last 
he  had  deceived  her,  and  she  had  so  trusted  him ! 

It  troubled  Merrylips,  too,  in  the  hours  that  followed 
Rupert's  flight,  to  feel  that  her  godmother  was  troubled. 

At  first  Lady  Sybil  seemed  to  make  light  of  the 
matter.  She  said  that  no  doubt  the  man  Claus,  in  his 
stupidity,  had  been  frightened  by  her  questions  and  so 
had  run  away  and  taken  the  boy  with  him.  She  was 
sorry  for  the  lad,  who  was  so  ill  and  so  unfit  to  travel, 
and  she  sent  out  into  the  countryside  to  find  him.  But 
she  could  get  no  news  of  the  runaways.     No  one  seemed 

53 


54  MERRYLIPS 

to  have  seen  or  heard  of  them.  And  then  Lady  Sybil 
became  grave  and  anxious  indeed. 

Little  by  little  Merrylips  stopped  pitying  Rupert, 
who  might  be  lying  sick  under  some  hedge.  Instead 
she  began  to  wonder  what  harm  might,  through  Rupert, 
come  upon  her  dear  godmother.  She  thought  about 
this  so  much  that  she  made  her  head  ache.  Indeed  her 
head  seemed  strangely  apt  to  ache  in  those  days ! 

At  last,  one  twilight,  when  Rupert  had  been  gone 
four  days  from  Larkland,  Merrylips  cast  herself  down 
on  the  cushion  at  her  godmother's  feet,  and  begged  her 
to  say  just  what  was  the  evil  that  all  the  household 
seemed  to  fear. 

"The  silly  serving-folk  have  filled  thy  little  head  with 
idle  tales,"  said  Lady  Sybil,  as  if  displeased;  but  then, 
as  she  looked  into  the  piteous  little  face  that  was  raised 
to  hers,  she  changed  her  tone. 

"Sweetheart,"  said  she,  "I  have  done  ill  to  let  thee 
be  frightened  with  fancies,  so  now  I  will  tell  thee  the 
mere  truth.  Thou  art  to  be  relied  on,  I  know.  Thou 
wilt  keep  all  secret." 

"As  I  am  a  gentleman,"  said  Merrylips,  soberly. 

Then  Lady  Sybil  told  her  that  in  the  house  of  Lark- 
land  she  kept  hidden  a  great  treasure  of  jewels  that 
had  been  left  her  by  her  father,  the  Duke  of  Barrisden. 
She  had  told  no  one  of  this  treasure,  except  old  Roger, 


IN  THE   MIDST  OF  ALARUMS  55 

who  was  most  faithful ;  but  she  feared  lest  others  of  her 
servants  might  suspect  its  whereabouts,  and  for  that 
she  was  troubled.  For  jewels,  she  explained,  could 
quickly  be  turned  into  money,  and  money  could  furnish 
soldiers  with  horses  and  guns  and  powder.  So  there 
were  many  on  both  sides,  now  that  war  was  coming  in 
the  land,  who  would  be  glad  to  have  the  spending  of 
the  Larkland  treasure. 

"But  it  is  to  the  service  of  our  king  that  I  shall  give 
my  jewels,"  said  Lady  Sybil. 

Merrylips  drew  a  long  breath  and  nodded  her  head. 
"Be  sure!"    she  whispered. 

Lady  Sybil  went  on  to  explain  that  in  that  part  of  the 
country  there  were  many  people  —  Roundheads,  as 
Merrylips  had  learned  to  call  them  —  who  were  for 
the  Parliament  against  the  king.  She  was  afraid  lest 
these  people  should  learn  that  her  jewels  were  hidden  af 
Larkland  and  come  and  seize  them.  On  that  account 
she  was  troubled  at  Rupert's  and  Claus's  coming  to 
the  house  and  then  fleeing  away  by  night.  She  feared 
lest  they  had  been  sent  by  these  Roundhead  neighbors 
to  spy  upon  her,  in  the  hope  of  learning  where  she  kept 
her  treasure. 

Not  twenty-four  hours  later  it  seemed  as  if  Lady 
Sybil's  worst  fears  were  to  come  true.  About  noon- 
time there  sounded  a  sudden  trampling  of  horses  in  the 


56  MERRYLIPS 

courtyard,  and  a  moment  later  a  man  strode  into  the 
room  where  Lady  Sybil  and  Merrylips  were  at  dinner. 
He  was  a  tall,  solid  man  with  a  close-set  mouth  and  a 
square  jaw,  and  the  bow  that  he  made  before  Lady 
Sybil  was  brisk  and  businesslike. 

"  'Tis  a  graceless  matter  I  am  come  upon,   your  * 
Ladyship,"  said  he,  "but  'tis  better  done  by  me,  who 
am  known  to  you,  than  by  a  stranger.     I  am  come,  on 
behalf  of  the  Parliament,  whose  servant  I  am,  to  search 
your  house  for  arms." 

Merrylips  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  knew  that 
crossbows  were  arms,  and  she  loved  her  own  crossbow. 
She  flew  up  the  stairs,  and  as  she  did  so,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  rough  men  in  the  hall,  who  were  tearing  down 
the  pikes  and  fowling-pieces  from  the  wall,  and  heeding 
old  Roger  never  a  bit. 

In  her  chamber  she  seized  her  dear  crossbow  and 
ran  down  again  to  the  parlor,  where  she  posted  herself 
in  front  of  Lady  Sybil. 

"The  Roundheads  shall  not  have  my  arms ! "  she  said. 

The  square-jawed  man  looked  at  her  then,  and 
smiled.  He  was  sitting  much  at  his  ease,  with  his 
elbow  on  the  table  and  a  cup  of  wine  within  reach  of 
his  hand. 

"That's  a  chopping  wench,"  said  -he.  "A  kins- 
woman to  your  Ladyship?" 


"I    AM   COME,   ON   BEHALF   OF  THE    PARLIAMENT,  TO  SEARCH   YOUR 
HOUSE    FOR   ARMS." 


IN  THE   MIDST  OF  ALARUMS  57 

"A  daughter  to  Sir  Thomas  Venner,"  Lady  Sybil 
answered,  in  her  coldest  and  sweetest  voice. 

"Then,  on  my  word,  a  kinswoman  of  mine  own!" 
cried  the  man.  "I  am  William  Lowry,  my  lass,  your 
third  cousin  by  the  distaff  side.  Come !  Wilt  thou 
not  give  me  a  cousinly  kiss?  " 

Merrylips  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  kin  to  no  Roundhead,"  she  answered. 

Mr.  Lowry  seemed  not  at  all  angry. 

"Thy  health,  for  a  brisk  little  shrew!"  he  laughed. 
"I've  a  wife  at  home  would  be  fain  of  a  little  daughter 
like  unto  thee." 

Just  then  Mr.  Lowry  was  called  from  the  room  by 
one  of  his  followers.  Indeed  Merrylips  saw  no  more 
of  him  till  she  looked  from  the  parlor  window,  and  saw 
him  riding  away  at  the  head  of  his  little  band.  They 
took  with  them  all  the  pikes  and  muskets  and  snap- 
hances,  and  even  old  rusted  headpieces  and  cuirasses 
that  were  stored  at  Larkland,  but  that  was  all  that  they 
did  take.  Plainly,  they  had  not  guessed  that  precious 
jewels  were  hidden  in  the  house. 

"But  they  may  come  again,"  said  Lady  Sybil, 
gravely,  when  Merrylips  asked  her  if  all  was  not  now 
well. 

"And  a  second  time,"  she  went  on,  "the  searchers 
may  be  ruder.     I  have  no  love  to  Will  Lowry,  'tis  true, 


58  MERRYLIPS 

but  he  bore  himself  to-day  as  well  as  a  man  might  do 
that  hath  in  hand  a  hateful  and  a  wicked  work.  Others 
might  prove  less  courteous." 

"He  is  an  evil  man  and  false/'  cried  Merrylips. 
She  found  it  easy  to  believe  people  false,  since  she  had 
been  so  deceived  in  Rupert.  "He  said  he  was  my 
mother's  kinsman." 

"And  so  he  is,  child,"  Lady  Sybil  answered.  "He 
is  a  kinsman  to  thy  mother,  and  to  me  also  by  marriage. 
He  is  a  gentleman  of  good  estate  in  the  eastern  part  of 
the  county,  and  he  took  to  wife  my  cousin,  Elizabeth 
Fernefould,  a  sister  to  the  present  Duke  of  Barrisden." 

Now  Merrylips  had  always  thought  of  Lady  Sybil's 
father  as  the  duke.  Indeed,  she  had  never  heard  a 
word  of  the  present  Duke  of  Barrisden.  So  at  the 
mention  of  his  name  she  looked  puzzled. 

Then  Lady  Sybil,  who  had  trusted  Merrylips  with 
much,  trusted  her  with  more.  She  told  her  that  her 
father,  the  duke,  had  had  no  son,  and  so  his  title  had 
gone  to  a  distant  cousin,  and  that  he  had  been  angered 
with  her,  and  so  had  left  much  of  his  property  to  this 
same  cousin.  This  man,  who  now  was  Duke  of  Bar- 
risden, was  a  Puritan,  as  those  were  called  who  wished 
to  make  changes  in  the  great  Church  of  England.  Like 
most  Puritans,  he  was  no  friend  to  the  king,  and  in  all 
likelihood  would  fight  against  him  in  the  coming  struggle. 


IN  THE   MIDST  OF  ALARUMS  59 

"For  thou  seest  his  brother-in-law,  Will  Lowry,  hath 
already  ranged  himself  on  the  side  of  the  Parliament," 
said  Lady  Sybil.  "He  had  not  done  so,  without  the 
duke's  counsel.  'Tis  a  great  nest  of  Roundhead  gentry, 
here  in  our  parts,  and  no  friends  to  me." 

That  evening,  as  you  may  guess,  there  was  no  play- 
ing of  hunt  and  hide  in  the  corridors  of  Larkland,  nor 
dancing  in  the  little  parlor.  Instead  Lady  Sybil  went 
hither  and  thither,  and  gave  orders  and  sent  off  letters, 
while  Merrylips,  holding  fast  to  her  crossbow,  trudged 
bravely  at  her  heels.  Next  day  Goody  Trot,  who  since 
Will  Lowry's  coming  was  quite  sure  that  the  Spaniards 
were  upon  them,  went  away  in  a  wagon  to  her  daughter 
in  the  next  village.  The  next  day  after  that  old  Roger 
had  the  coach  horses  shod  with  extra  care.  Finally, 
on  the  third  day,  came  a  messenger,  riding  post,  from 
the  Duke  of  Barrisden,  who  brought  an  answer  to  the 
letter  that  Lady  Sybil  had  sent  him. 

Lady  Sybil  read  this  letter,  seated  in  her  chamber, 
beside  a  chest  where  she  was  sorting  garments.  When 
she  had  read,  she  drew  Merrylips  to  her,  with  a  gayer 
face  than  she  had  shown  since  the  morning  of  Rupert's 
flight. 

"Methinks  we  shall  yet  be  clear  of  this  gin,"  said  she. 
"Here's  his  Grace  most  courteously  assure th  me 
that  no  let  nor  hindrance  will  be  put  in  my  way,  if  I 


60  MERRYLIPS 

wish  to  quit  Larkland  and  go  unto  my  friends  who, 
even  as  myself,  are  Cavaliers  —  malignants,  he  is 
pleased  to  call  them." 

"Shall  we  go  on  a  journey,  then?"  asked  Merrylips. 
"That's  brave!" 

"Ay,  brave  indeed  !"  said  Lady  Sybil,  and  she  flushed 
and  smiled  like  a  girl.  "We'll  go  in  the  coach,  thou, 
and  I,  and  Mawkin,  and  Roger,  and  with  us  —  lean 
closer,  darling !  —  with  us  will  go  the  jewels,  snugly 
hidden  in  our  garments.  We'll  guard  them  for  the 
king." 

"God  save  him!"  whispered  Merrylips. 

"And  at  Winchester,"  Lady  Sybil  went  on,  "there'll 
be  trusty  men  to  meet  us.  I  have  written  unto  them. 
And  whom  dost  thou  think  to  see  commanding  them?" 

Merrylips  caught  her  breath. 

"Not  —  not  — "  she  faltered. 

"Ay,  thine  own  dear  brother,  Longkin.  Thy  father 
will  send  some  of  his  troop  to  guard  us,  and  they  will 
take  us  —  where  thinkest  thou?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Merrylips.  "To  Walsover !  To 
Walsover !  Sweet  godmother,  we're  going  home  at 
last  to  Walsover!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   SILVER  RING 

That  night  Merrylips  hardly  slept  a  wink.  No 
doubt  it  was  the  thought  of  home  that  kept  her  wakeful, 
but  she  wondered  why  that  thought  should  also  make 
her  head  heavy  and  her  throat  dry. 

As  long  as  it  was  dark,  she  thought  that  when  morn- 
ing came  she  should  have  to  tell  her  godmother  that 
she  was  not  feeling  well.  But  when  the  day  broke, 
she  found  so  much  to  do  that  at  first  she  forgot  about 
herself.  Later,  when  she  remembered,  thanks  to  the 
ache  in  her  head,  she  was  afraid  that  if  she  said  a  word 
about  it,  she  should  not  be  allowed  to  run  to  and  fro 
and  help  her  godmother,  so  she  kept  silent. 

Indeed  it  was  a  busy  day  at  Larkland,  —  so  busy 
that  Lady  Sybil  did  not  pay  such  close  heed  as  usual 
to  Merrylips,  and  so  did  not  notice  that  she  was  not 
quite  her  brisk  little  self.  There  were  boxes  and  bun- 
dles to  pack  for  the  journey  upon  the  morrow.  There 
were  orders  to  give  to  the  serving-folk  about  the  care 
of  the  house.  There  were  last  visits  to  pay  to  good 
folk  in  Cuckstead  village.    Everything  was  done  openly. 

61 


62  MERRYLIPS 

That  was  the  surest  way.  Lady  Sybil  told  Merrylips, 
to  keep  people  from  guessing  that  she  had  any  othel 
reason  for  taking  this  journey  than  that  she  wished  to 
leave  a  neighborhood  that  she  disliked. 

Yet  at  one  time  it  seemed  as  if  the  secret  of  the  jewels 
must  have  got  out.  Early  in  the  afternoon  old  Roger 
came  with  a  whispered  word  of  danger.  From  an 
upper  window  of  the  house  he  had  spied  a  little  band  of 
horsemen  riding  from  the  east,  and  in  the  east  lay  the 
lands  of  the  Duke  of  Barrisden,  and  Will  Lowry,  and 
their  Roundhead  neighbors. 

The  moments  of  waiting  that  followed  were  hard 
to  bear.  It  seemed  an  endless  time  before  Roger  came 
again  to  Lady  Sybil's  chamber.  But  now  he  brought 
good  news,  for  he  told  her  that  the  horsemen  had  turned 
southward  over  Cuckstead  common,  toward  the  next 
village,  which  was  called  Rofield. 

"No  doubt  they  are  gone  thither  to  plunder  the  loyal 
folk  of  their  arms,  even  as  they  did  by  me,"  said  Lady 
Sybil.  "Indeed,  our  going  hence  is  timed  not  an  hour 
too  soon." 

Then  she  dismissed  Roger.  She  bade  him  keep 
a  sharp  watch,  and  meantime  to  tell  the  other  servants 
that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed.  Against  the  long 
journey  on  the  morrow,  she  and  her  young  goddaughter 
would  rest  that  afternoon  in  her  chamber. 


THE  SILVER  RING  6$ 

But  it  was  anything  but  rest  that  Lady  Sybil  and 
Merrylips  were  to  have  that  day.  As  soon  as  Roger 
had  gone,  Lady  Sybil  bolted  the  door,  and  closed  the 
shutters,  as  if  she  wished  to  keep  the  light  from  the  eyes 
of  a  sleeper.  Then  she  pressed  a  spring  in  a  panel  of 
the  wainscot,  near  the  chimney  piece.  Behold !  the 
panel  swung  open  like  a  door,  and  Merrylips  looked 
into  the  secret  chamber  of  Larkland,  of  which  she  had 
so  often  heard. 

Out  from  the  dingy  little  recess  Lady  Sybil  brought 
caskets  and  coffers  of  odd  shapes  and  sizes.  Some 
were  of  leather.  Some  were  wrought  of  metal.  All 
these  she  opened,  in  the  rays  of  dusty  sunlight  that  came 
through  the  heart-shaped  openings,  high  up  in  the 
shutters,  and  at  sight  of  what  they  held,  Merrylips 
cried  out  softly.  She  thought  that  all  the  jewels  in 
the  world  must  be  gathered  in  that  room.  She  looked 
on  blood-red  rubies,  and  great  emeralds,  and  fire- 
bright  topazes,  and  milky  pearls,  and  flawless  diamonds, 
and  all  were  set  in  a  richness  of  chased  silver  and  fine 
gold. 

"Oh,  surely,"  breathed  Merrylips,  "with  such  wealth 
to  aid  him,  our  king  will  soon  put  down  his  enemies !" 

At  first  she  scarcely  dared  to  touch  the  precious  things, 
but  soon  she  found  herself  handling  them  as  if  they 
were  no  more  than  bits  of  colored  glass.     For  it  was 


64  MERRYLIPS 

her  part  to  help  Lady  Sybil  sew  the  jewels  into  the  lining 
of  the  gowns  and  cloaks  that  they  should  wear  upon 
the  journey.  Mighty  proud  Merrylips  was  that  such 
a  trust  was  placed  in  her,  and  glad,  too,  that  she  had 
learned  to  use  a  needle,  so  that  she  might  be  of  service 
in  such  a  need  ! 

Hour  after  hour  Merrylips  sat  at  Lady  Sybil's  feet, 
in  the  darkened  chamber,  where  the  air  was  heavy 
with  heat,  and  stitched  and  stitched.  While  the  busy 
moments  passed,  the  sunlight  faded  from  the  room. 
There  came  a  rumbling  of  thunder  in  the  sultry  air, 
and  then  the  beating  of  rain  upon  the  roof. 

It  must  be  the  thunder,  thought  Merrylips,  that 
made  her  head  ache.  So  languid  did  she  feel  that  she 
was  glad  to  lay  her  head  against  her  godmother's  knee. 
Thus  she  rested,  and  listened  to  the  plash  of  rain, 
while  through  her  half-closed  eyelids  she  watched  her 
godmother,  with  deft,  white  fingers,  sew  the  last  neck- 
lace into  the  bodice  of  her  gown. 

For  a  moment  Merrylips  must  have  dozed,  but  all 
at  once  she  was  awake  again.  She  saw  that  her  god- 
mother had  paused  in  her  sewing,  and  wonderingly, 
she  looked  upon  her.  Then  she  saw  that  Lady  Sybil 
sat  with  her  eyes  upon  a  ring  that  she  had  taken  from 
the  casket  beside  her  —  a  ring  wrought  of  dull  old 
silver,  in  the  shape  of  two  hearts  entwined. 


THE   SILVER   RING  6j 

"I've  seen  that  ring  ere  now,"  said  Merrylips,  drowsily. 
"Godmother,  when  did  I  see  that  ring?" 

Lady  Sybil  made  no  answer,  and  when  Merrylips 
looked  up  into  her  face,  she  saw  that  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  remember  me,"  said  Merrylips.  "'Twas  in  the 
portrait  that  I  saw  it  —  the  miniature  of  your  fair 
sister,  Lady  Venetia.     She  wore  that  ring." 

"Nay,  not  this  ring,  my  darling,  but  its  mate," 
Lady  Sybil  answered.  "'Tis  the  crest  of  our  house, 
of  the  Fernefoulds  of  Barrisden.  The  two  rings  were 
wrought  for  us,  two  sisters,  and  given  us  by  our  father. 
'Twas  the  last  token  ever  he  gave  unto  us,  while  love 
was  still  amongst  us  three." 

Merrylips  took  the  ring  from  the  fingers  that  yielded 
it,  and  caressed  it  with  her  hand  and  with  her  lips. 

"Poor  Lady  Venetia!"  she  whispered.  "And  poor 
godmother!" 

The  storm  had  now  passed  over  Larkland.  On  the 
roof  the  rain  pattered  softly,  and  from  the  garden  rose 
the  keen  scent  of  drenched  herbs.  In  the  hush  Lady 
Sybil's  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper. 

"I  said  that  one  day  thou  shouldst  hear  her  story  — 
my  poor,  pretty  sister !  We  were  our  father's  only 
children,  Venetia  and  I,  and  sorely  he  grudged  that 
we  should  both  be  daughters.     He  was  a  stern  man, 


66  MERRYLIPS 

and  wont  to  have  his  will  in  all  things.  He  was  fain 
to  make  great  marriages  for  us,  since  he  had  no  sons, 
but  in  that  purpose  he  was  thwarted.  He  who  should 
have  been  my  husband  died  a  month  before  the  wedding 
day.    When  thou  art  older,  thou  mayst  understand. 

"My  father  was  angered  for  that  I  would  not  take 
another  mate,  and  he  vowed  that  he  would  bring  his 
younger  daughter  to  do  his  will.  But  she  —  my  poor 
Venetia !  —  had  given  her  heart  already  out  of  her 
keeping.  His  name  was  Edward  Lucas,  a  gentleman 
of  good  birth  and  no  fortune,  who  was  master  of  horse 
in  our  father's  household.  When  she  found  that  our 
father  would  force  her  to  a  marriage  with  one  whom 
she  loathed,  she  did  madly,  yet  I  cannot  think  her  all 
to  blame.  By  stealth  she  was  wedded  to  Edward 
Lucas,  and  with  him  she  left  the  kingdom." 

"And  did  you  never  see  her  more?"  asked  Merry- 
lips. 

She  felt  that  she  must  not  look  upon  her  godmother's 
face,  so  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  ring.  She  had  now 
slipped  it  upon  her  own  finger. 

"Nay,  sweetheart,"  said  Lady  Sybil.  "I  never  saw 
my  sister  again  in  this  world.  My  father  forbade  me 
to  go  unto  her,  or  even  to  receive  her  letters.  I  was  ill 
and  broken  in  those  days.  'Twas  then  that  my  hair 
grew  gray  as  thou  dost  see  it.     But  by  secret  ways} 


THE   SILVER   RING  6? 

ofttimes  through  writings  to  thy  father,  who  had  been 
a  friend  to  Ned  Lucas,  I  had  tidings  of  my  sister. 

"She  went  with  her  husband  into  the  Low  Countries, 
where  he  served  in  the  army  of  the  States  General  and 
proved  himself  an  able  soldier.  Thence  they  went 
into  far  Germany,  where  great  wars  have  raged  these 
many  weary  years.  Two  children  were  born  unto 
them,  and  taken  from  them,  and  then  at  last,  in  a  great 
fever  that  swept  through  the  camp,  they  died  in  one 
same  week,  my  sister  and  her  husband.  And  thou 
knowest  now,  sweetheart,  the  story  of  her  who  wore 
the  ring  that  was  mate  to  the  one  which  thou  dost 
condle." 

In  the  dim  light  Merrylips  crept  closer,  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  her  godmother's  hand. 

"Poor  godmother!"  she  whispered.  "I  be  right 
sorry." 

"Dear  little  heart!"  said  Lady  Sybil,  and  sat  for 
a  moment  with  her  hand  on  Merrylips'  cheek. 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  she  returned  to  herself,  she 
exclaimed  aloud :  — 

"Why,  child,  thy  cheek  is  fever-hot.  I  have  done 
ill  to  vex  thee  with  sad  tales,  on  a  day  of  such  alarums 
and  with  such  a  morrow  before  us.  Now  in  very  truth, 
I  shall  clap  thee  straightway  into  thy  bed  to  rest  against 
our  journey." 


68  MERRYLIPS 

Oddly  enough,  Merrylips  felt  no  wish  to  cry  out 
at  such  an  order.  So  though  it  was  not  yet  sunset  she 
soon  found  herself  tucked  snugly  into  her  own  little 
bed,  between  sheets  that  smelled  of  lavender,  and  she 
found  her  godmother  bending  over  her,  to  give  her  a 
good  night  kiss. 

"Why,  my  Merrylips!"  said  Lady  Sybil,  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  from  a  drowsy  distance.  "If 
thou  hast  not  here  my  ring  upon  thy  finger !  Let  me 
bestow  it  safely." 

But  Merrylips,  for  once,  was  disobedient. 

"Let  me  keep  it  by  me!"  she  begged,  in  a  fretful 
voice.  "I'll  not  lose  it.  Only  let  me  wear  it  till  I 
come  unto  Walsover!  Prithee,  let  me,  dear  god- 
mother!" 

All  unlike  her  brave  little  self,  Merrylips  was 
fairly  crying,  and  with  those  tears  she  won  her  way. 
When  she  fell  at  last  into  a  restless  and  broken  sleep, 
she  still  wore  on  her  finger  the  silver  ring  that  was  the 
mate  of  the  one  that  had  belonged  to  poor,  pretty  Lady 
Venetia. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ALL  LN  THE  NIGHT 

For  a  thousand  years,  it  seemed  to  Merrylips,  she 
had  been  climbing  a  hill.  It  was  a  long,  long  hill, 
and  very  steep,  but  at  the  top,  she  knew,  was  Walsover, 
and  only  by  gaining  the  top  could  she  reach  home. 
So  she  climbed  and  she  climbed,  with  the  breath  short 
in  her  throat  and  her  body  aching  with  weariness,  but 
climb  as  she  would,  she  was  just  as  far  as  ever  from 
the  top. 

She  knew  also  —  how,  she  could  not  say,  —  that 
she  had  no  time  to  lose.  She  must  reach  the  top  of 
the  hill  very  soon,  or  something  dreadful  would  happen. 
Between  weariness  and  fright  she  found  herself  sobbing, 
yet  all  the  time  she  kept  saying  to  herself :  — 

"'Tis  a  dream !     'Tis  naught  but  a  dream !" 

Then  she  heard  Mawkin's  voice. 

"Hasten,  hasten,  mistress!"  Mawkin  was  saying. 
"Rise  and  don  your  clothes !    Rise,  else  'tis  too  late  I" 

"Oh,  I  be  trying,  Mawkin!  Indeed,  I  try,  but  'tis 
so  far  to  climb!"  Merrylips  heard  her  own  voice  wai] 
in  answer. 

69 


JO  MERRYLIPS 

She  wondered  why  she  troubled  herself  to  answer, 
when  it  was  nothing  but  a  dream. 

Before  her  eyes  flashed  a  candle,  as  bright  as  if  it 
were  real.  Round  her  she  seemed  to  see  the  wains- 
cotted  walls  of  her  little  chamber,  and  the  carved  chair 
by  the  bedside,  on  which  her  clothes  were  laid.  She 
seemed  to  see  Mawkin  bending  over  her,  with  her  hair 
disordered  and  her  eyes  wild  —  so  clear  and  lifelike 
had  this  dream  become ! 

"'Tis  the  soldiers!"  Mawkin  was  saying.  "The 
loyal  folk  at  Rofield  have  sent  to  warn  us.  The  wicked 
Roundheads  will  be  down  on  Larkland  this  same  night. 
You  must  forth  at  once,  little  mistress,  with  no  staying 
for  coaches.  You  must  go  a-horseback,  you  and  her 
Ladyship,  and  Roger  to  guard  you.  You  must  go,  and 
without  more  staying.  Waken,  waken,  little  slug-abed, 
if  you  be  fain  to  see  Walsover !" 

"I  know!  I  know!"  moaned  Merrylips.  "I've 
this  long  hill  to  climb." 

Then,  in  her  dream,  she  felt  hands  laid  upon 
her. 

"Quickly,  quickly,  you  must  don  your  clothes!" 
Mawkin  was  crying. 

With  all  her  strength  Merrylips  struggled  against 
her  and  struck  with  her  hands. 

"Oh,  thou  art  cruel,"  she  sobbed,  "so  to  hold   me 


ALL  IN  THE  NIGHT  J\ 

back  from  this  hill !  Thou  art  cruel  —  cruel !  Let 
me  go,  Mawkin  !    Let  me  go  !" 

She  heard  Mawkin  crying  and  coaxing,  and  at  last 
calling  for  help,  but  she  heard  her  far  off  in  the  dream. 
Once  more  she  was  struggling  up  the  long  hill  to  Wals- 
over,  and  the  time,  she  knew,  ran  every  moment  shorter. 

For  one  instant  the  dream  was  at  a  standstill.  Heavy- 
headed  and  weak  and  sick,  Merrylips  found  herself. 
She  lay  in  her  own  bed,  in  her  own  chamber.  On  the 
table  close  by  shone  a  candle,  which  made  strange 
shadows  on  the  wall,  and  through  the  casement  she  saw 
a  thin  moon  riding  down  the  sky.  At  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  stood  Mawkin,  and,  just  as  she  had  done  in  the 
dream,  she  was  wringing  her  hands  and  talking  and 
crying. 

But,  not  as  it  had  been  in  the  dream,  Lady  Sybil, 
in  the  green  gown  and  the  cloak  into  which,  that  after- 
noon, the  jewels  had  been  sewn,  was  bending  over  the 
bed.  Her  arms  were  round  Merrylips,  and  her  hand, 
on  the  little  girl's  forehead,  felt  cool  and  soft.  It  was 
the  touch  of  her  hand,  thought  Merrylips,  that  had 
ended  the  dream. 

"Little  one!"  Lady  Sybil  was  saying.  "Thou  dost 
know  me,  mine  own  lass?" 

"Ay,  godmother,"  Merrylips  tried  to  answer,  but 
could  make  no  sound. 


72  MERRYLIPS 

"Oh,  your  Ladyship!"  Mawkin  began  to  blubber. 
"She's  fever- stricken,  my  poor,  bonny  lamb!  She 
can  never  forth  and  ride  with  this  sickness  upon  her. 
She  must  e'en  bide  here  at  Larkland.  And  when  the 
soldiers  come,   haply  they  will — " 

"Peace,  thou  silly  fool !"  Lady  Sybil  spoke  sharply. 
"No  harm  will  be  done  the  child.  And  yet,  ill  as  she 
is  and  in  sore  need  of  my  care  —  oh,  how  can  I  leave 
thee,  Merrylips?    How  can  I  leave  thee?" 

Upon  her  face  Merrylips  felt  hot  tear-drops  fall. 
She  thought  that  she  must  be  dreaming  again.  It 
could  not  be  her  godmother  who  was  weeping  so ! 

Once  more  she  had  set  her  tired  feet  to  the  dream-hill 
that  she  must  climb,  when  she  heard  a  heavy  step  in 
the  chamber.  Beside  the  bed  she  saw  old  Roger  stand. 
He  wore  a  leathern  coat,  and  at  his  vide  he  bore  a  rusted 
old  sword.  She  wondered  where  he  had  hidden  it  at  the 
time  when  Will  Lowry  searched  the  house  of  Larkland. 

"Your  Ladyship!"  said  old  Roger. 

He  spoke  in  the  curt,  soldierly  fashion  that  must  have 
been  his  when  he  was  a  young  man  and  served  against 
the  Irish  kern  in  Connaught. 

"Your  horses  stand  ready  at  the  door,"  he  went  on. 
"Your  enemies  are  yonder  on  Cuckstead  common,  not 
a  mile  away.  An  you  will  come,  with  that  which  you 
bear  upon  you,  you  must  come  now,  or  never!" 


ALL  IN  THE  NIGHT  73 

Merrylips  lay  with  her  head  upon  Lady  Sybil's 
bosom,  and  she  felt  that  bosom  shaken  with  sobbing. 

"Oh,  Roger!  My  good  Roger!"  said  a  broken 
voice,  which,  Merrylips  felt,  could  only  in  a  dream 
be  Lady  Sybil's  voice.  "  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  can 
I  do  ?  This  child  —  my  little  lass !  She  hath  fallen 
ill.  I  cannot  take  her  with  me  in  my  flight.  Yet  I 
cannot  leave  her." 

Old  Roger  answered  in  a  voice  that  rang  through  the 
dream. 

"'Tis  a  sweet  little  lady  and  winsome,  —  ay,  and 
dear  unto  mine  old  heart,  your  Ladyship !  But  the 
king's  cause  is  dearer  than  any  child  unto  us,  who  are 
your  father's  poor  servants.  Your  Ladyship,  'tis  to 
save  your  wealth  for  the  good  cause  you  go.  'Tis  for 
the  king  you  ride  to-night !" 

"The  king ! "  whispered  Merrylips.  "  God  save  him ! " 

"Hath  not  the  child  herself  said  it?"  cried  old  Roger. 
"Come,  your  Ladyship  ! " 

For  one  instant  Merrylips  felt  on  her  forehead  the 
touch  of  Lady  Sybil's  lips.  For  one  instant  she  heard 
that  dear  voice  in  her  ear. 

"For  the  king,  my  little  true  heart  —  to  bear  him 
aid  —  only  for  that  I  leave  thee  !  And  oh  !  God  keep 
thee,  Merrylips,  till  I  may  come  to  thee  again !  God 
keep  thee !" 


74 


MERRYLIPS 


But  Merrylips  heard  the  voice  now,  drowsily  and 
far  off.  Far  off,  too,  she  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps 
hurrying  from  the  room,  and  the  sound  of  some  one  — 
was  it  Mawkin  ?  —  sobbing.  Fainter,  still  farther  off, 
she  heard  a  ringing  of  horse-hoofs  —  a  ringing  sound 
that  soon  died  away.  She  saw  the  slit  of  a  moon  and 
the  candle  at  the  bedside  shrink  till  they  were  dim 
dreamlights. 

Once  again  she  was  climbing  the  long  hill  that  never 
had  an  end.  But  as  she  struggled  on  and  on,  with  breath 
that  failed  and  feet  that  were  so  tired,  she  told  herself 
that  it  was  all  a  dream,  and  nothing  but  a  dream.  The 
hill  was  a  dream,  and  the  terror  that  followed  her  a 
dream,  and  oh !  most  surely  of  all,  it  was  a  black  and 
not-to-be-believed-in  dream  that  Lady  Sybil  could  have 
gone  from  Larkland  and  left  her  there  alone. 


CHAPTER  X 

PRISONER  OF  WAR 

The  dream  of  the  steep  hill  was  only  a  dream.  In 
time  it  ended,  and  Merrylips  found  herself,  such  a 
weak  little  shadow  of  a  Merrylips,  lying  in  her  chamber 
at  Larkland.  Round  her  bed  moved  her  own  maid, 
Mawkin,  and  other  people  whom  she  did  not  know. 
There  were  strange  serving- women,  and  a  doctor  dressed 
in  black,  and  a  tall,  pale  woman,  with  hands  that  were 
dry  and  cold. 

Little  by  little  Merrylips  guessed  that  the  other  dream 
that  had  troubled  her  was  no  dream.  By  and  by  she 
got  strength  to  ask  questions,  and  then  she  found  that 
it  was  indeed  true  that  Lady  Sybil  had  gone  from  Lark- 
land  and  left  her  behind. 

Mawkin  told  her  the  story  one  night  when  she  watched 
at  the  bedside.  She  told  how  the  Roundhead  soldiers 
had  been  almost  at  the  gates  of  Larkland;  how,  to 
save  the  jewels,  which  she  dared  trust  to  no  other 
hand,  Lady  Sybil  had  fled  on  horseback;  and  how 
she  had  been  obliged  to  leave  Merrylips,  who  had  that 
very  night  been  stricken  with  fever. 

75 


76  MERRYLIPS 

"No  doubt  you  took  the  sickness  from  that  rascal 
boy  whom  you  did  bring  to  shelter  here,"  said  Mawkin. 
"As  if  that  little  vagabond  had  not  brought  trouble 
enough  upon  us  without  this!  But  in  any  case,  you 
have  been  most  grievous  ill.  Full  three  weeks  you 
have  lain  in  sick-bed,  and  we  have  all  been  in  great  fear 
for  you." 

At  the  moment  Merrylips  had  strength  only  to  wonder 
whom  Mawkin  meant  by  "all."  She  asked  no  ques- 
tions then,  but  as  the  slow  days  passed,  she  came  to 
know  that  Mistress  Lowry,  Will  Lowry's  wife  and  Lady 
Sybil's  cousin,  was  living  at  Larkland. 

Upon  Lady  Sybil's  flight,  Will  Lowry  had  seized  her 
house.  He  said  that  he  had  a  right  to  it,  because  his  wife 
was  nearest  of  kin  to  Lady  Sybil,  and  Lady  Sybil  had 
proved  herself  an  enemy  to  the  Parliament,  by  fleeing 
to  the  king's  friends,  and  so  had  justly  forfeited  her 
house  and  lands.  Doubtless  Mr.  Lowry  would  have 
found  it  hard  to  make  good  his  claim  to  Larkland  in 
the  courts  of  law,  but  at  such  a  time,  when  the  country 
was  plunging  into  civil  war,  the  courts  had  little  to 
say. 

So  Lowry's  men  and  maids  served  in  the  house  oi 
Larkland.  Lowry's  steward  gathered  the  harvests  and 
collected  the  rents.  And  Lowry's  wife,  who  was  sickly 
and  wished  the  air  of  the  Sussex  Weald,  left  her  own 


PRISONER  OF  WAR  77 

house  by  the  sea  and  came  to  rule  in  Lady  Sybil's 
place. 

Of  the  old  household  only  Mawkin  and  Merrylips 
were  left.  Mawkin  was  there  because  Merrylips 
needed  her,  and  Merrylips  was  there  because,  at  first, 
she  was  too  sick  to  be  moved,  and  because  afterward 
■ —  but  afterward  was  some  time  in  coming. 

Meanwhile  Merrylips  grew  slowly  better  and  stronger. 
And  every  day,  and  more  than  once  each  day,  Mis- 
tress Lowry,  the  tall,  pale  woman  with  the  dry  hands, 
was  at  her  bedside.  She  brought  possets  and  jellies 
to  the  little  girl.  She  read  to  her  from  a  brown  book 
with  clasps.  She  talked  to  her  of  what  might  have 
happened  to  her,  if  she  had  died  in  the  fever,  after  the 
careless  life  that  she  had  led.  So  gravely  did  she 
speak  that  Merrylips  dared  not  go  to  sleep  at  night 
until  she  had  a  candle  burning  on  the  table  beside  her. 

Once  or  twice,  too,  Will  Lowry  himself,  with  the 
close  mouth  and  the  square  jaw,  came  into  Merrylips' 
chamber,  and  patted  her  cheek  and  bade  her  get  well. 

"Ay,  sir,"  promised  Merrylips.  "I  shall  soon  be 
well,  and  then  I  shall  go  unto  Walsover,  shall  I 
not?" 

But  to  that  Will  Lowry  answered  that  she  must  first 
get  strong.  It  would  be  time  enough  then  to  talk  of 
the  long  journey  to  Walsover. 


J%  MERRYLIPS 

So  Merrylips  got  well  as  fast  as  she  could.  She  did 
not  doubt  that  Mistress  Lowry  meant  to  be  kind,  but 
she  much  preferred  to  be  with  her  father  and  her  brothers 
and  her  dear  godmother  at  Walsover. 

Again  and  again  she  begged  for  news  of  her  family. 
All  that  Mawkin  could  tell  her  was  that  letters  had  come 
from  Walsover.  Mawkin  did  not  know  a  word  that 
was  in  them.  Then  Merrylips  questioned  Mistress 
Lowry,  but  she  would  tell  her  only  that  her  kinsfolk 
all  were  well  in  body,  though  they  were  given  over, 
heart  and  soul,  to  the  service  of  a  wicked  king  and  a 
false  religion. 

When  Merrylips  heard  her  dear  ones  spoken  of  in 
this  harsh  fashion,  she  could  not  help  crying,  for  she 
still  was  very  weak.  This  crying  and  fretting  and 
wondering  as  to  when  she  should  go  home,  did  not 
help  her  to  get  well  quickly.  Indeed  it  was  autumn, 
and  her  birthday  once  again,  —  her  ninth  birthday,  — 
before  she  was  able  to  fling  crumbs  to  the  carp  in  the 
fish-pond  and  walk  in  the  little  village,  as  she  had  used 
to  do  with  Lady  Sybil. 

Then,  one  blowy  October  day,  Mawkin  came  to 
Merrylips'  chamber.  Her  face  was  all  red  with  weep- 
ing, and  she  blubbered  out  that  she  had  been  dismissed 
from  Mistress  Lowry's  service.  The  very  next  morn- 
ing she  was  to  be  sent  packing  off  to  Walsover. 


PRISONER   OF  WAR  79 

"Thou  art  going  to  Walsover?"  cried  Merrylips. 
"Why,  what  hast  thou  to  weep  on,  thou  silly  Mawkin? 
Thou  shouldst  rather  be  smiling.  Come,  we'll  make 
ready  our  mails  against  the  journey." 

As  she  spoke,  Merrylips  started  to  rise  from  the  broad 
window-bench  where  she  had  been  sitting.  But  Maw- 
kin caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  hugged  her,  and  poured 
out  her  story,  weeping  all  the  while. 

"But  I  am  to  go  alone,  sweet  little  mistress!  That 
wicked  rebel  Lowry  and  his  sanctified  wife  are  sending 
your  poor  Mawkin  away,  because  she  loveth  you,  mine 
own  poppet,  and  would  mind  you  of  home,  and  they 
mean  that  you  shall  never  go  again  unto  Walsover, 
but  stay  here  with  them  forever  and  ever,  and  forget 
your  father  and  your  mother !" 

"But  wherefore?"  asked  poor  Merrylips,  who  was 
quite  dazed  at  this  news. 

Many  times,  both  on  the  day  of  Mawkin's  sorrowful 
departure,  and  in  the  days  that  followed,  Merrylips 
repeated  that  question.  At  the  time  she  got  no  answer 
that  she  could  understand.  It  was  not  till  she  was 
much  older  that  she  learned  the  reasons  that  had  lain 
behind  what  might  almost  be  called  her  captivity. 

Out  of  policy  Will  Lowry  had  kept  Merrylips  at 
Larkland.  He  had  brothers  and  nephews  fighting  for 
the  Parliament  in  the  west  country,  where  Merrylips' 


80  MERRYLIPS 

father  was  commanding  a  troop  for  the  king.  He 
believed  that  Sir  Thomas  was  powerful  enough  to 
befriend  these  kinsmen,  if  they  should  be  taken  prisoners, 
and  he  believed  that  Sir  Thomas  would  be  more  likely 
to  do  so,  if  Sir  Thomas  knew  that  his  own  little  daughter 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  As  a  possible  hostage, 
then,  Will  Lowry  kept  his  masterful  grasp  on  Merry- 
lips. 

For  a  different  reason  Mistress  Lowry  was  not  willing 
to  let  the  little  girl  go.  She  had  but  one  child,  a  son 
who  was  away  at  school,  and,  as  Will  Lowry  had  said, 
on  the  day  when  he  seized  the  arms  at  Larkland,  she 
wanted  a  little  daughter.  Now,  like  many  other  peo- 
ple, Mistress  Lowry  thought  Merrylips  a  sweet  child, 
and  she  wished  her  for  her  own,  and  so  she  calmly 
took  her. 

Stranger  still,  Mistress  Lowry  believed  that  she  did 
a  praiseworthy  thing  in  keeping  the  little  girl  from 
her  parents  and  her  friends.  She  meant  to  bring 
Merrylips  up  in  the  straitest  sect  of  the  Puritans. 
With  such  a  bringing  up  she  thought  that  Merrylips 
would  be  better  and  happier  than  if  she  were  bred 
among  her  own  kindred,  for,  according  to  Mistress 
Lowry,  they  were  careless  and  evil  people.  No  doubt 
Mistress  Lowry,  in  her  own  way,  dearly  loved  Merry- 
lips, but  it  was  a  selfish  and  a  cruel  wpv. 


PRISONER   OF   WAR  8 1 

So  Will  Lowry,  from  policy,  and  Mistress  Lowry, 
from  what  she  called  love,  were  both  determined  to 
keep  Merrylips  at  Larkland.  And  when  they  were 
thus  determined,  who  could  stop  them?  There  were 
no  courts  of  law,  with  power  over  men  of  both  parties, 
to  make  Roundhead  Will  Lowry  give  back  to  Cavalier 
Sir  Thomas  his  stolen  child. 

Neither  could  Sir  Thomas  risk  the  lives  of  his  soldiers 
by  marching  a  hundred  miles  or  so  into  the  enemy's 
country  and  taking  back  his  little  daughter  by  force  of 
arms.  When  Sir  Thomas  had  written  a  couple  of  hot- 
tempered  letters  to  Will  Lowry,  he  had  done  all  that 
he  could  do.  Perhaps  at  times  he  even  forgot  about 
Merrylips.  He  was  so  busy  fighting  for  the  king  that 
he  had  no  time  to  think  about  a  little  girl  who,  after  all, 
was  in  no  danger  of  ill-treatment. 

But  all  these  things  Merrylips  knew  only  when  she 
was  older.  At  the  time,  in  the  dreary  autumn  of  1642, 
she  could  not  understand  why  the  Lowrys  kept  her  at 
Larkland,  nor  why  her  own  kindred  let  her  stay  there. 
But  at  least  she  knew  that  she  did  not  at  all  like  it  at 
Larkland,  so,  as  soon  as  she  felt  strong  and  well  again, 
she  started  off,  one  damp  November  day,  to  make  her 
way  alone  to  Walsover. 

She  had  her  crossbow  to  keep  off  padders  and  Round- 
heads, and  a  big  piece  of  gingerbread  to  eat  on  the  way. 


82  MERRYLIPS 

She  took  the  silver  ring,  shaped  like  two  hearts  entwined; 
and  hung  it  on  a  little  cord  about  her  neck,  within  her 
gown.  She  wished  to  have  it  with  her  for  luck,  because 
it  was  the  last  token  that  Lady  Sybil  had  given  her. 

Thus  she  started  off  in  the  early  morning,  and  at 
twilight  she  was  found  under  a  hedge,  eight  miles  from 
home.  She  had  eaten  the  gingerbread,  and  lost  one 
shoe,  and  draggled  her  petticoat  in  the  mud  and  wet. 
She  was  tired  and  half-frightened,  but  she  still  clung  to 
her  crossbow,  and  she  lifted  a  brave  little  face  to  the 
searchers  when  they  came  upon  her. 

Will  Lowry  himself  was  at  the  head  of  the  little  band 
of  serving-folk.  He  had  come  down  from  London, 
where  he  sat  in  Parliament,  to  see  how  matters  were 
going  at  Larkland,  and  he  did  not  seem  much  pleased 
at  having  to  ride  out  and  hunt  for  a  naughty  little 
runaway. 

When  once  he  had  Merrylips  seated  on  the  saddle 
before  him,  he  said  sharply :  — 

"An  thou  wert  a  lad,  I'd  flog  thee  soundly  for  this." 

"An  I  were  a  lad,"  said  Merrylips,  swallowing  her 
tears,  "you'd  not  flog  me  at  all,  for  I'd  'a'  been  clear 
to  Walsover  by  now." 

She  was  quite  sure  that  she  should  be  flogged  now, 
even  though  she  was  a  girl.  She  was-  too  tired  and 
down-hearted  to  care. 


PRISONER  OF   WAR  83 

But  to  her  surprise,  Will  Lowry,  instead  of  being 
more  angry  at  her  answer,  laughed. 

<CA  stout-hearted  wench !"  said  he.  "'Tis  pity  thou 
art  not  indeed  a  lad  !" 

Then  Lowry  unstrapped  the  cloak  that  was  bound 
behind  his  saddle,  and  wrapped  it  about  Merrylips, 
and  brought  her  back  to  Larkland  very  tenderly. 
Better  still,  he  would  not  let  a  word  of  reproof  be  spoken 
to  her.  The  child  was  punished  enough,  he  said,  with 
the  weariness  and  fright  that  she  had  suffered.  He  was 
kind,  and  Merrylips  knew  it. 

But  after  that  night,  by  order  of  this  same  kind  Will 
Lowry,  Merrylips  was  never  allowed  to  set  foot  outside 
the  garden,  unless  one  of  the  servants  was  with  her. 
So  never  again  did  she  have  a  chance  to  run  away  to 
Walsover. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  COMING  OF  HERBERT  LOWRY 

There  was  no  singing  of  carols  nor  eating  of  plum- 
pudding  and  mince  pies  at  Larkland  that  Christmas, 
you  may  be  sure.  Mistress  Lowry  said  that  to  keep 
Christmas  was  to  bow  the  knee  to  Baal. 

Merrylips  did  not  know  what  that  meant,  though  she 
thought  it  had  a  sinful  sound.  But  at  least  she  did 
know  that  on  Christmas  Day  she  had  nothing  better 
than  stewed  mutton  for  dinner,  and  she  was  given  extra 
tasks  that  kept  her  busy  till  nightfall. 

Indeed  Merrylips  had  so  many  tasks,  while  she  was 
under  Mistress  Lowry' s  care,  that  she  looked  back  on 
her  life  at  Walsover  as  one  long  holiday.  She  had  to 
spin,  and  to  knit,  and  to  read  aloud  from  dull  books 
about  predestination  and  election  and  other  deep 
religious  matters.  Worst  of  all,  she  had  to  sit  quietly 
for  an  hour  each  day  and  think  about  the  sinful  state 
of  her  heart  and  how  she  might  amend  it.  If  she  had 
not  been  as  sunny-tempered  and  brave  a  little  soul  as 
ever  lived,  she  would  surely  have  grown   fretful  and 

84 


THE   COMING  OF  HERBERT   LOWRY  85 

morbid,  shut  up  as  she  was  with  poor,  sickly,  fanatical 
Mistress  Lowry. 

Strangely  enough,  in  those  dull  winter  days,  Merry- 
lips  was  much  comforted  by  Will  Lowry,  who  came 
almost  every  week  on  a  visit  from  London.  He  seemed 
to  like  her  the  better,  because  she  had  tried  to  run  away. 

Once  he  brought  her  from  London  a  silken  hood. 
At  first  he  could  not  get  her  to  wear  it,  because  it  was 
the  gift  of  a  rebel.  But  later,  when  Mistress  Lowry 
took  the  silver  ring  away  from  Merrylips,  saying  that 
it  was  a  vain,  worldly  gaud,  he  bade  her  give  it  back  to 
the  little  girl.  After  that  Merrylips  was  glad  to  please 
him  by  wearing  the  hood. 

Will  Lowry  called  her  Merrylips,  too,  and  that  was 
a  comfort,  for  Mistress  Lowry  and  all  the  household 
called  her  Sybil,  a  name  by  which  she  scarcely  knew 
herself.  Better  still,  when  he  rode  about  the  fields 
and  farms  that  belonged  to  Larkland,  he  would  often 
take  her,  boy-fashion,  on  the  saddle  before  him,  or 
when  he  walked  in  Cuckstead  village,  he  would  have  her 
tramping  at  his  side.  He  did  not  scold  her  for  scram- 
bling over  walls  and  climbing  trees.  Instead  he  seemed 
pleased  with  her  strength  and  fearlessness. 

Once,  when  they  had  come  in  from  a  long  walk  in 
the  chill  winter  weather,  and  were  supping  alone 
on  bread  and  cheese,  Lowry  said,  half  playfully :  — 


86  MERRYLIPS 

"  Merrylips,  wouldst  thou  not  like  to  have  been  born 
my  little  daughter?" 

Merrylips  shook  her  head  sternly. 

"  I'm  daddy's  daughter,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  be 
none  other's." 

"Thou  canst  not  help  thyself,"  Will  Lowry  answered. 
"One  day  thou'lt  wed,  and  so  become  some  other 
man's  daughter." 

Then  he  added,  and  whether  he  spoke  in  jest  or  ear- 
nest Merrylips  was  too  young  to  know :  — 

"Upon  my  word,  when  thou  art  five  years  older, 
I'll  wed  thee  to  my  boy  Herbert,  and  so  I'll  have  thee 
for  a  daughter  in  thine  own  despite." 

At  least  Will  Lowry  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  from 
that  day  he  stopped  promising  Merrylips  that  some 
time  she  should  go  home  to  Walsover.  Also  he  began 
to  talk  to  her  of  his  boy  Herbert.  He  was  going  to 
bring  Herbert  to  Larkland  soon,  he  said,  and  so  give 
her  a  playfellow  of  her  own  years.  And  she  must  teach 
Herbert  to  play  at  ball  and  run  and  leap,  and  not  to 
be  afraid  of  a  horse. 

"Thou  art  a  better  lad  than  he  in  some  regards," 
said  Herbert's  father,  with  what  sounded  like  a  sigh. 
"He  is  overfond  of  his  book,  but  a  good  lad,  none  the 
less,  and  you  two  shall  be  dear  friends." 

Merrylips  did  not  feel  drawn   toward  Herbert  by 


THE  COMING  OF   HERBERT   LOWRY  87 

this  description,  nor  was  she  pleased  at  Lowry's  hint 
that  when  she  was  older  she  should  be  Herbert's  wife. 
Of  course  she  knew  that  some  day  she  should  marry, 
and  she  knew  that  girls  were  often  wives  at  fourteen. 
Still  she  did  not  wish  to  think  of  marriage  yet,  and 
especially  of  marriage  with  a  boy  who  was  overfond 
of  his  book. 

But  as  the  springtime  passed,  Merrylips  grew  so 
tired  of  Mistress  Lowry's  gloomy  company  that  she 
began  to  think  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  have  a  boy 
of  her  own  age  to  play  with,  even  such  a  boy  as  Herbert. 
So  she  was  more  glad  than  sorry  when  Mistress  Lowry 
told  her,  one  bright  day  at  Whitsuntide,  that  a  sickness 
had  broken  out  in  Herbert's  school,  and  next  week 
Herbert  would  come  home. 

A  little  while  after  young  Herbert  came  to  Larkland. 
When  he  and  Merrylips  stood  side  by  side,  any  grown 
person  would  have  understood  why  poor  Will  Lowry 
wanted  Merrylips  for  a  daughter,  and  would  have  been 
a  little  sorry  for  him. 

Herbert  was  frail  and  sickly  like  his  mother.  He 
was  two  years  older  than  Merrylips,  but  hardly  a  frac- 
tion of  an  inch  the  taller.  His  hair  was  whity  yellow, 
and  lank,  while  hers  was  ruddy  brown  and  curly.  His 
eyes  were  pale  blue,  while  hers  were,  like  her  hair, 
a  ruddy  brown.     He  drooped  his  head  and  shoulders. 


88  MERRYLIPS 

She  carried  her  chest  and  chin  bravely  uplifted  and 
looked  the  world  in  the  face. 

Not  only  was  Herbert  sickly  like  his  mother,  but, 
as  Merrylips  soon  found  out,  he  was,  like  his  mother, 
peevish  and  selfish.  Besides,  he  was  a  coward.  He 
would  not  even  mount  a  horse,  though  his  father,  to  shame 
him,  set  Merrylips  on  his  own  steady  cob  and  let  her  trot 
up  and  down  the  courtyard.  Worse  still,  once  when 
his  father  caught  him  in  a  lie  and  struck  him  with  a 
riding  whip,  Herbert  whimpered  aloud,  so  that  Merry- 
lips was  ashamed  for  him. 

But  Herbert  was  not  whipped  a  second  time.  His 
mother  took  his  part,  and  said  that  he  must  not  be  beaten, 
for  he  was  not  strong.  Then  his  mother  and  his  father 
quarrelled,  —  so  Merrylips  heard  it  whispered  among 
the  serving-folk,  —  and  Mistress  Lowry  took  to  her 
bed  for  a  week,  and  Will  Lowry  went  up  to  London  in 
some  temper. 

After  that  Will  Lowry  came  less  often  to  Larkland. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  the  Parliament  in  which  he 
sat  was  very  busy  all  that  summer.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  he  felt  himself  helpless  to  contend  against  his 
ailing  wife.  In  any  case,  he  stayed  away  from  Lark- 
land,  and  Merrylips,  for  one,  missed  him  sorely. 

Still,  though  Merrylips  did  not  like  Herbert,  they 
were  two  children  in  a  dull  house  full  of  grown  folk, 


THE  COMING  OF  HERBERT  LOWRV  89 

so  they  were  much  together.  When  Herbert  felt 
good-natured,  he  could  tell  long  stories  that  he  had 
read  in  books,  about  the  wars  of  Greece  and  Rome  and 
the  pagan  gods  and  goddesses.  Sometimes  he  sang, 
too,  in  a  reedy  little  voice,  and  he  could  make  sketches 
with  his  pencil  such  as  neither  Flip  nor  Munn  nor 
even  Longkin  could  ever  hope  to  make.  At  such  times 
as  these  Merrylips  was  glad  of  his  company  and  openly 
admired  his  cleverness. 

'But  out-of-doors,  at  boyish  sports,  Herbert  was 
worse  than  useless.  He  could  not  climb  and  run  and 
ride  and  play  as  Merrylips  did,  and  he  was  jealous  be- 
cause she  could.  He  mocked  at  all  she  did,  and  said 
that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  do  it  far  better,  because  he 
was  a  boy,  and  she  but  a  paltry  girl.  He  would  not 
let  her  touch  his  bat  and  balls,  and  once,  when  he 
found  her  peeping  into  one  of  his  Latin  books,  he  ran 
and  told  his  mother  that  she  was  meddling  with  his 
things. 

Very  soon  Herbert  found  a  better  way  to  tease  Merry- 
lips than  by  laughing  at  her  or  bearing  tales  to  his  mother. 
Whenever  he  quarrelled  with  her,  and  that  was  often, 
he  delighted  to  taunt  her  with  the  fact  that  she  was 
a  Cavalier.  All  Cavaliers,  he  said,  were  false  and 
cowardly,  and  the  brave  and  virtuous  Parliament  men 
were  beating  them  soundly. 


90  MERRYLIPS 

Here  Herbert  took  an  unfair  advantage.  From 
his  parents  he  knew  all  that  was  happening  in  England, 
from  the  Roundhead  standpoint.  But  poor  Merrylips 
was  not  allowed  to  read  for  herself  the  letters  that  were 
sent  her  from  Walsover  and  get  the  Cavalier  side  of  the 
story.  So  she  had  no  arguments  with  which  to  answer 
him. 

One  day  in  October  Herbert  told  her  joyfully  that 
the  king's  army  had  been  driven  back  from  Gloucester 
and  soundly  beaten  at  a  place  called  Newbury. 

Merrylips  could  answer  only  that  she  didn't  believe  it. 

Then  he  told  her  that  the  king  had  made  peace  with 
the  murderous  Irish,  and  that  he  was  a  false  and  wicked 
man. 

At  that  Merrylips  used  the  oldest  argument  in  the 
world.  She  clenched  her  little  fists,  as  she  had  not  done 
since  her  eighth  birthday,  two  full  years  before,  and 
she  gave  Herbert  a  smack  that  sent  him  blubbering 
to  his  mother. 

To  be  sure,  Merrylips  was  well  punished  for  that 
blow.  Mistress  Lowry  whipped  her  hands,  and  prayed 
over  her.  Then  she  sent  her  supperless  to  her  chamber, 
and  bade  her  pray  that  her  naughty  spirit  might  be 
broken. 

But  Merrylips  did  not  pray.  Instead  she  curled  up 
on  the  window-seat,  and  from  within  her  gown  took 


THE  COMING  OF   HERBERT   LOWRY  91 

the  silver  ring  that  Lady  Sybil  had  left  with  her,  and 
kissed  it  and  stroked  it  and  talked  to  it. 

"I  do  think  long  to  be  at  Walsover,"  she  whispered. 
"But  ere  I  go,  I'd  fain  smack  Herbert  once  again  for 
a  tittling  talebearer.  Ay,  and  I'd  fain  fight  the  wicked 
Roundheads,  for  Herbert  and  his  mother  be  of  their 
party,  and  O  kind  Lord !  Thou  knowest  that  they 
have  used  me  much  unhandsomely!" 

And  if,  at  that  point,  under  cover  of  the  twilight, 
a  tear  or  two  fell  on  the  silver  ring,  even  Merrylips' 
big  brothers  could  scarcely  have  blamed  that  poor 
little  captive  maid. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  VENNER  TO   THE  RESCUE! 

"Sybil!  Hey,  Sybil!  Why  dost  not  answer  when 
I  speak  thee  fair?" 

It  was  Herbert  Lowry  that  spoke  from  the  threshold 
of  the  hall,  where  Merrylips  sat  alone  at  her  knitting. 
She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  tiresome  stitches,  and  saw 
him  standing  there,  and  she  thought  to  herself  that  never 
had  she  seen  him  look  so  well. 

He  was  wearing  breeches  and  doublet  of  reddish 
brown  stuff,  with  gilt  buttons,  —  a  suit  that  pleased 
her  best  of  all  his  clothes.  In  the  autumn  sunlight 
that  slanted  through  the  door,  his  hair  was  touched 
with  yellow,  and  the  color  of  his  skin  seemed  almost 
healthy.  He  had  spoken  too  in  a  friendly  voice.  It 
was  clear  that  he  was  ready  to  make  up,  after  the 
quarrel  of  two  weeks  ago  in  which  she  had  struck  him. 

She  was  not  sorry  to  be  friends  with  him  again. 
After  all,  she  found  Herbert  better  company  than  no 
company  at  all. 

"Look  'ee,  Sybil !"  said  Herbert,  as  he  met  her  eyes. 

He  tiptoed  into  the  hall,  and  held  up  before  her  a 
little  creel  and  a  long  line. 

92 


A  VENNER  TO  THE   RESCUE !  93 

"The  cook-maid  hath  given  me  a  dainty  bit  to  eat, 
and  I've  here  a  brave  new  line.  What  sayst  thou  if 
we  go  angling  for  gudgeons  to-day  in  the  brook  under 
Nutfold  wood?" 

Merrylips  clapped  her  hands  and  forgave  Herbert 
everything. 

"A-fishing?  Wilt  take  me,  Herbert?  I've  not  cast 
a  line  in  a  twelvemonth.  Oh,  wilt  thou  truly  take  me, 
Herbert?"  she  cried. 

"Now  hush!"  he  snapped.  "'Tis  like  a  silly  girl 
to  be  squawking  it  out  so  all  the  house  may  hear.  To 
be  sure,  I'll  be  gracious  to  take  thee  with  me,  Sybil, 
if  thou'lt  be  good  — " 

"I  will !"  promised  Merrylips,  headlong. 

"And  do  as  I  bid  thee  — " 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Merrylips.     "Let  us  be  gone!" 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  mistrusted  that  Herbert  had 
planned  this  trip  without  telling  his  mother.  She 
doubted  if  Mistress  Lowry  would  let  her  ramble  off 
the  three  miles  to  Nutfold  with  no  better  guard  than 
this  young  boy.  So  she  was  much  afraid  lest  she  should 
be  called  back  and  forbidden  to  go  a-fishing.  She 
fairly  tiptoed  out  of  the  house  at  Herbert's  side,  and 
never  drew  a  long  breath  till  she  heard  the  garden  gate 
close  behind  them. 

The  two  children  were  now  quite  sure  of  not  being 


94 


MERRYLIPS 


seen  and  stopped.  But  none  the  less  Herbert,  who  was. 
sly  by  nature,  picked  their  path  in  the  shelter  of  walls 
and  hedges  and  through  copses.  In  this  stealthy 
way  they  went  westward  toward  the  wood  that  lay  by 
the  hamlet  of  Nutfold.  Herbert  was  empty-handed. 
He  bade  Merrylips  carry  the  creel  in  which  their  lunch- 
eon was  packed,  and  true  to  her  word,  she  did  his 
bidding. 

When  they  reached  the  brook  Herbert  said :  — 

"Now  thou  mayst  dig  for  worms,  Sybil,  while  I  cut 
me  a  fish-rod." 

Well,  well !  She  had  promised  to  do  as  he  asked,  and 
a  gentleman  must  keep  his  word,  so  she  took  a  stick 
and  grubbed  in  the  dirt  for  bait,  while  Master  Herbert 
sat  at  his  ease  and  trimmed  an  alder  branch  with  his 
knife.  As  she  worked,  she  wondered  if  she  had  not 
been  foolish  to  come  with  Herbert.  She  should  be 
punished,  surely,  for  running  away  and  leaving  her 
knitting  undone.  And  meanwhile  she  was  not  having 
at  all  a  good  time. 

As  the  morning  passed,  Merrylips  found  less  and 
less  pleasure  in  the  sport  to  which  she  had  looked  for- 
ward. Again  and  again  Herbert  bade  her  bait  his 
hook  for  him,  and  he  made  her  carry  the  creel,  but  not 
once  did  he  let  her  cast  the  line. 

It  was  his  line,  he  said,  when  she  timidly  asked  to 


A  VENNER  TO  THE   RESCUE!  95 

have  it  only  for  one  throw.  It  was  his  line,  and  he 
should  use  it,  and  in  any  case  she  could  not  catch  a 
fish.     She  was  but  a  girl. 

"I'd  not  need  to  be  a  skilled  angler  to  do  better  than 
thou,"  answered  Merrylips.  "Thou  hast  not  taken 
a  fish  this  morning." 

"'Tis  because  thou  hast  frighted  them  away  with 
thy  clitter-clatter,"  scolded  Herbert.  "A  fool  I  was 
to  let  thee  come  with  me!" 

Almost  at  an  open  quarrel,  they  stumbled  through  the 
tangled  sedges  and  trailing  underwood  upon  the  bank 
of  the  stream.  The  tireder  Herbert  grew,  the  crosser 
he  was,  and  the  worse  luck  he  had  with  his  fishing  — 
and  he  had  very  bad  luck !  —  the  surer  he  was  that 
Merrylips  was  to  blame. 

Soon  he  began  to  mock  and  to  tease  her,  and  once, 
when  she  tripped  over  a  fallen  branch,  he  laughed  out- 
right. 

"You  may  laugh,"  cried  Merrylips,  "but  haply  you'd 
not  find  it  easy  to  keep  your  feet,  if  you  bore  a  great 
basket,  and  if  you  wore  hateful  petticoats  a-dangling 
round  your  feet.  I  would  that  you  had  to  wear  petti- 
coats but  once !" 

"Thou'rt  weeping  now!"  jeered  Herbert. 

Merrylips  made  herself  laugh  in  his  face. 

"'Tis  only  silly  boys  that  weep,"  said  she.    "When 


96  MERRYLIPS 

their  fathers  beat  them,  they  snivel,  and  run  with  tales 
to  their  mothers. " 

The  quarrel  had  begun  in  earnest.  For  the  next 
half  mile  the  tired  children  tramped  in  angry  silence. 
Then  Herbert  snatched  the  creel  from  Merrylips. 

"'Tis  mine!"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  on  a  grassy  bank  and  opened  the  creel. 
Within  it  were  spice  cakes  and  cheese  and  a  little 
chicken  pasty,  and  every  crumb  that  greedy  boy  munched 
down  himself,  and  never  offered  so  much  as  one  spice 
cake  to  Merrylips. 

Perhaps  he  hoped  that  she  would  ask  for  a  share  of 
the  luncheon,  but  in  that  case  he  was  disappointed. 
Merrylips  was  hungry  indeed,  after  the  long  walk  in 
the  autumn  air,  but  she  would  have  starved  before  she 
would  have  begged  of  Herbert. 

She  went  a  little  way  off,  but  only  a  little  way,  for 
she  could  not  help  hoping  that  he  might  offer  her  some 
of  the  food.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  brook 
and  flung  clods  of  dirt  into  the  water.  She  sang,  too, 
because  she  wished  Herbert  to  think  that  she  did  not 
care  at  all,  but  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  watched 
the  chicken  pasty  and  the  cheese  and  the  spice  cakes 
till  the  last  crumb  was  gone. 

Then  Merrylips  lay  down  and  drank  from  the  brook, 
for  she  saw  that  a  drink  of  water  was  all  the  luncheon 


A  VENNER  TO  THE   RESCUE!  97 

that  she  was  to  have.  As  she  leaned  over  the  brook, 
the  silver  ring  that  hung  about  her  neck  slipped  from 
the  bosom  of  her  gown  and  swung  at  the  end  of  the  cord 
on  which  she  wore  it. 

"What's  that?"  said  Herbert. 

He  too  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  brook  to  drink, 
and  he  stood  near  Merrylips. 

"Let  me  look  upon  it,  Sybil." 

"Go  finish  your  dinner!"  Merrylips  answered  as 
she  put  the  ring  back  within  her  gown. 

Her  tone  angered  Herbert  even  more  than  her  words. 

"You  show  me  that  as  I  bid  you  !"  he  cried.  "How 
dare  you  disobey  me  ?  You're  going  to  be  my  wife  some 
day  —  father  saith  so  —  and  then  I'll  learn  you  !  Now 
you  show  me  that  silver  thing,  mistress,  or  I'll  beat 
you!" 

"Try  it!"  flashed  Merrylips. 

But  for  all  her  brave  words,  she  did  not  wish  to  fight 
with  Herbert.  She  felt  too  tired  and  hungry  to  fight, 
and  besides,  if  she  beat  Herbert,  she  knew  that  she 
should  be  punished  for  it  by  Mistress  Lowry.  So 
when  Herbert  put  out  his  hand  to  seize  her,  she  dodged 
him  and  took  to  her  heels  through  the  wood.  She 
knew  that  she  could  outrun  him. 

She  heard  him  crashing  among  the  bushes  behind 
her.      She  felt   the  sting  of  the  bare  branches   that 


98  MERRYLIPS 

whipped  her  face  as  she  ran.  Blindly  she  sped  along 
till  right  at  her  feet  she  saw  the  ground  open  where  a 
sunken  bridle-path  ran  between  steep  banks.  Far  off 
on  the  path  she  heard,  as  something  that  did  not  con- 
cern her,  like  a  sound  in  a  dream,  a  muffled  padding 
of  horse-hoofs. 

Panting  and  spent,  she  jumped  down  the  bank  into 
the  path,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  caught  her  skirt  on  a 
prickly  bush  of  holly.  She  was  brought  to  her  knees 
by  the  sudden  jerk,  and  before  she  could  free  her  skirt 
and  rise  she  felt  Herbert's  grasp  close  on  her  arm. 

"  You  jade  !    I'll  learn  you  now !"  Herbert  cried. 

All  the  time  she  had  heard  the  horse-hoofs,  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  she  heard  now  a  deep  voice. 

"Lord  'a'  mercy!  Ye  little  fools!"  the  voice  said. 
"Will  ye  be  ridden  down?" 

Horses,  two  horses,  that  looked  to  Merrylips  as  tall 
as  steeples,  were  halted  right  above  her.  In  the  saddle 
of  one  a  big  man  in  a  steel  cap  and  a  leathern  coat  sat 
gaping.  From  the  saddle  of  the  other  there  had  vaulted 
down  a  slim  young  fellow  in  a  shiny  cuirass,  with  a 
plumed  hat  on  his  head  and  a  sword  slung  from  his 
baldric.     He  caught  Herbert  by  the  neck. 

"Learn  her,  wilt  thou?"  he  cried  in  a  clear,  youthful 
voice.  "Faith,  here's  a  schooling  in  which  I'll  bear  a 
hand,  my  pretty  gentleman  !  " 


Faith,  here's  a  schooling  in  which  I'll  bear  a  hand, 
my  pretty  gentleman  !" 


A  VENNER  TO  THE   RESCUE!  99 

There  was  something  in  the  voice,  something  in  the 
figure,  that  brought  to  Merrylips  the  sight  of  Walsover, 
and  the  sound  of  voices  that  she  had  not  heard  in  two 
long  years.  She  scrambled  to  her  feet,  and  with  a  loud 
cry  flung  her  arms  about  the  young  man. 

"'Tis  thou  !  'Tis  thou  !"  she  cried.  "'Tis  thou  at 
last,  and  I  did  not  know  thee  !  Oh,  Munn  !  mine  own 
dear  brother!" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IN  BORROWED  PLUMES 

At  first  Merrylips  could  only  laugh  and  cry  and 
repeat  her  brother's  name,  while  all  the  time  she  clung 
tight  to  him.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true  that  Munn 
had  really  come  at  last !  If  once  she  let  go  of  him,  she 
feared  that  he  would  vanish,  as  the  shapes  of  her  dear 
ones  had  so  many  times  vanished  in  her  homesick 
dreams. 

Little  by  little  she  grew  sure  that  the  figures  on  which 
she  looked  were  real.  The  horses  that  drooped  their 
heads  to  crop  the  brown  grass  were  real.  The  big 
trooper,  who  held  their  bridles  with  one  hand,  was 
real,  and  in  his  face,  which  was  all  one  broad  grin, 
she  recognized  the  features  of  that  same  Stephen 
Plasket,  the  serving-man  who  had  gone  with  her  when 
she  went  walking  in  London.  From  him  she  turned 
to  Herbert  Lowry,  who  stood  scared  and  shaking,  with 
his  arm  in  Stephen's  grasp,  and  she  found  him  so  real 
that  she  knew  this  was  no  dream. 

Then  she  looked  up  again,  at  the  sunburnt  young 
face  under  the  plumed  hat,  that  bent  above  her.     She 


IN  BORROWED  PLUMES  iOI 

was  certain  now  that  it  was  indeed  Munn,  in  flesh  and 
blood.  So  she  kept  back  the  tears  of  which  he  would 
not  approve. 

"And  what's  the  news  from  Walsover?"  she  begged, 
as  soon  as  she  could  speak.  "Oh,  tell  me  how  it  is 
with  daddy  and  with  my  godmother!" 

Very  hastily  Munn  told  her  all  that  she  wished  to 
know.  First  he  told  how  Lady  Sybil  had  come  safe 
to  Walsover  with  her  jewels,  which  had  long  since  been 
spent  in  the  king's  service.  After  that  Lady  Sybil 
had  gone  a  long  journey  into  France,  to  beg  some  of 
the  great  folk  in  those  parts,  whom  she  had  known  in 
her  girlhood,  to  send  aid  to  the  cause  she  served.  For 
a  time  also  she  had  been  in  the  king's  camp  at  Oxford, 
but  now  she  had  come  back  to  Walsover. 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  how  Lady  Venner  and  Puss 
and  Pug  were  full  of  cares,  for  Walsover  had  been 
fortified  and  garrisoned.  Besides,  many  cousins  and 
kinsfolk  had  come  there  for  shelter,  so  the  great  house 
was  full  to  overflowing. 

Of  more  interest  to  Merrylips,  he  said  that  their 
father,  Sir  Thomas,  was  in  command  of  a  troop  of 
horse,  with  headquarters  at  Walsover.  Longkin,  who 
was  now  a  tall  gallant  with  mustaches,  was  a  lieutenant 
under  him,  and  Flip  hoped  soon  to  be  an  officer. 
But  at  present  Flip  was  thought   too   young  to  hold 


102  MERRYLIPS 

a  commission,  and  so  he  had  to  stay,  much  against 
his  will,  and  mind  his  book  at  Walsover. 

For  his  own  part,  Munn  ended,  he  had  got  him  a 
cornetcy  in  the  horse-troop  of  Lord  Eversfield,  the 
father  of  one  of  his  schoolfellows.  Just  now  he  was 
serving  under  one  Captain  Norris,  at  a  fortified  house 
called  Monksfield,  in  the  rape  of  Arundel. 

While  Munn  was  speaking,  he  kept  glancing  up  and 
down  the  bridle-path,  and  when  Merrylips  noticed 
this,  she  cut  him  short. 

" Leave  the  rest!"  she  said.  "Thou'lt  have  time 
enough  to  tell  it  me  on  our  way.  And  now  let  us  be 
off  quickly,  lest  we  be  stayed." 

At  that  Herbert  lifted  his  voice. 

" Don't  you  dare  to  go  with  these  vile  knaves!"  he 
shrilled.  "My  mother  will  be  angered.  Don't  you 
dare!" 

Merrylips  laughed  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 
Then  she  saw  that  Munn  stood  biting  his  lip,  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  and  she  stopped  laughing. 

"Mimn!"  she  gasped.  "But  surely  thou  art  come 
to  fetch  me?  Thou  wilt  never  think  to  go  and  leave 
me  here  behind?" 

With  a  gesture  that  she  remembered,  Munn  took 
off  his  hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Look  'ee,  Merrylips,"  said  he,  "I  was  i'  the  wrong, 


IN   BORROWED   PLUMES  103 

belike,  to  come  hither  at  all.  'Twas  that  I  was  sent 
from  Monksfield  with  others  of  our  troop  to  gather 
cattle  and  provender  for  our  garrison.  We  seized  this 
morn  upon  the  village  of  Storringham,  a  league  or  so  to 
the  west  of  here.  And  Lieutenant  Crashaw  who  com- 
mandeth  our  party  bade  me  ride  forward  with  a  trusty 
man,  to  spy  out  the  country.  And  so  I  shaped  our 
course  toward  Larkland,  on  the  chance  that  I  might  see 
thee,  honey,  or  get  news  of  thee,  for  I  was  fain  to  know 
how  thou  wert  faring." 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Merrylips.  "But  now  that  thou 
hast  found  me,  Munn,  dear,  what  shall  hinder  me  to  go 
away  with  thee?" 

Munn  shook  his  head. 

"How  can  I  take  thee,  Merrylips?  I  tell  thee,  I  am 
in  garrison,  in  a  house  where  no  women  dwell,  among 
men  ruder  than  any  thou  hast  ever  dreamed  on,  or 
should  dream  on,  little  maid.  Our  captain  indeed  hath 
straitly  charged  us  to  bring  thither  no  women  of  our 
kindred,  nor  young  children.  For  the  life  in  garrison 
is  rough  and  hard,  and  more,  we  are  in  daily  peril  of 
assault  from  our  enemies.  Thou  seest  well,  thou  canst 
not  come  with  me.  Thou  must  be  content  to  stay  at 
Larkland,  where  thou  art  safe  from  danger." 

"But  I  do  not  fear  danger!"  cried  Merrylips,  fling- 
ing back  her  head. 


104  MERRYLIPS 

Then  once  more  she  clung  to  Munn,  and  begged  and 
pleaded  as  never  before  in  her  little  life. 

"  Oh,  Munn  !  Sweetest  brother !  Thou  canst  not  have 
the  heart  to  leave  me,  when  I  have  waited  long.  And 
'tis  so  hateful  at  Larkland,  with  Mistress  Lowry  ever 
chiding  and  lessoning  me,  and  Mr.  Lowry,  he  cometh 
almost  never  among  us  now.  And  they  say  that 
daddy  and  thou  and  Longkin  are  evil  men,  and  that  I 
must  hate  the  king  — " 

"Say  they  so?"  growled  Stephen,  the  trooper. 
"Quiet,  ye  rebel  imp  !" 

As  he  said  that,  he  shook  Herbert,  though  Herbert 
had  not  so  much  as  stirred. 

"And,"  Merrylips  hurried  on,  "they  say  when  I  am 
older,  I  must  wed  Herbert  Lowry  yonder." 

Then  it  was  Munn's  turn  to  break  into  words. 

"Now  renounce  my  soul !"  he  cried,  and  flushed  to 
the  hair,  and  then  grew  white  under  his  coat  of  tan. 
"So  that's  Will  Lowry' s  bent  —  to  mate  my  sister  with 
his  ill-conditioned  brat !  Upon  my  conscience,  Merry- 
lips,  I  be  half  minded  — " 

She  held  her  breath,  waiting  to  hear  him  bid  her 
scramble  on  his  horse's  back.  But  after  a  moment  he 
shook  his  head. 

"Nay,  it  must  not  be,"  he  said  sadly.  "Monks- 
field  is  no  place  to  which  to  bring  a  girl  child.  Ah, 
Merrvlips,  if  thou  wert  but  a  young  boy!" 


IN   BORROWED   PLUMES  105 

Merrylips  clenched  her  hands.  She  was  fairly 
trembling  with  a  great  idea  that  had  come  to  her. 
When  she  tried  to  speak,  she  almost  stammered. 

"Munn  !  Dearest  Munn !  Why  should  I  not  go  as 
a  boy  —  as  thy  little  brother?  Oh,  I'll  bear  me  like  a 
boy!  I'll  never  cry  nor  fret  nor  be  weary.  Oh,  do 
but  try  me,  Munn  !  Best  brother !  Sweetest  brother ! 
Let  me  go  with  thee  as  a  little  boy !" 

"Thou  lookest  a  boy,"  said  Munn,  and  tried  to  smile, 
as  he  pointed  at  her  petticoat.     "What  of  clothes?" 

"Faith,  sir,"  cried  Stephen,  "if  the  little  mistress  be 
stayed  for  naught  but  a  doublet  and  a  pair  of  breeches, 
here  they  be,  ready  to  hand!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  trooper  began  to  unfasten  Herbert's 
ruddy  brown  doublet,  and  at  that  Herbert  screamed :  — 

"Do  thou  but  wait!  'Tis  thou  shalt  pay  for  this, 
Sybil  Venner,  when  my  mother  cometh  to  hear  on  it !" 

"Be  quiet!"  bade  Munn,  in  a  stern  voice.  "And 
you,  Stephen  Plasket,  hold  your  hand.     Let  me  think !" 

He  stood  in  the  bridle-path,  with  his  brows  knit  and 
his  lips  stiffened,  while  he  tried  to  see  his  way  clear, 
this  young  officer,  who  himself  was  after  all  no  more 
than  a  boy.  He  knew  that  Monksfield  was  no  place  for 
Merrylips.  He  knew  that  he  would  disobey  his  captain's 
orders,  if  he  should  take  a  little  girl  thither. 

Yet  he  dreaded  to  leave  her  behind  at  Larkland.     Not 


106  MERRYLIPS 

only  did  he  hate  to  disappoint  her  so  cruelly,  but  he 
was  angry  at  the  mere  hint  of  her  being  brought  up  to 
make  Herbert  Lowry  a  wife.  Besides  he  was  afraid, 
hearing  Herbert's  outcry,  that  if  she  were  left  behind, 
she  might  be  punished  only  for  thinking  to  escape. 

In  short,  Munn  felt  that  he  could  not  leave  his  sister 
at  Larkland.  But  at  the  same  time  he  knew  that  he 
could  not  take  her,  as  a  girl,  to  Monksfield. 

In  this  dilemma  he  began  to  turn  over  her  childish 
proposal  that  she  should  go  with  him  disguised  as  a 
boy.  He  felt  almost  sure  that  he  should  be  allowed 
to  bring  a  young  lad  into  the  garrison  for  a  few  days. 
Within  those  few  days  he  hoped  to  find  means  to  send 
Merrylips  on  to  Walsover,  before  any  one  could  dis- 
cover that  she  was  no  boy,  but  a  little  girl. 

He  knew  that  this  was  a  risky  undertaking,  and  he 
knew  that  the  burden  of  it  would  fall  upon  the  child, 
but  he  thought  that  he  could  trust  her.  He  noted  how 
straight  and  vigorous  was  her  slim  young  figure,  how 
brown  and  healthy  her  color,  how  brave  her  carriage. 
She  had  always  been  a  boyish  little  girl,  and  in  her 
boyishness  he  now  placed  his  hope. 

From  Merrylips  Munn  turned  to  that  pallid  and  ill- 
favored  Herbert,  who  was  squirming  in  Stephen's 
grip.  Suddenly  all  that  in  Munn  which  was  still  a 
schoolboy  thought  it  a  rare  jest  to  put  Herbert  into  petti- 


IN   BORROWED   PLUMES  \OJ 

coats,  where  he  belonged,  and  set  brave  little  Merrylips, 
for  once,  in  the  breeches  that  all  her  life  she  had  longed 
to  wear.  So  good  a  jest  it  was,  that  he  thought,  for 
the  jest's  sake,  he  might  win  forgiveness  even  from  his 
captain,  if  he  should  be  found  out. 

Carried  away  by  the  fun  of  it,  he  turned  to  Merrylips, 
and  his  eyes  were  dancing. 

"Run  thou  behind  yonder  thick  holly  bush,"  he 
spoke  the  words  that  bound  him  to  this  plan.  "Off 
with  thy  gown  and  fling  it  forth  to  me.  Thou  shalt 
speedily  have  other  gear  to  replace  it." 

Before  he  had  done  speaking,  Merrylips  was 
screened  behind  the  holly  bush,  and  with  fingers  that 
shook  was  casting  off  her  bodice  and  her  petticoat. 
As  she  did  so,  she  heard  an  angry  cry  from 
Herbert. 

"I'll  tell  my  mother !    I'll  tell  my  — " 

There  the  cry  changed,  and  from  the  sounds  that 
went  with  it  she  knew  that  at  last  Herbert  was  getting, 
from  Stephen  Plasket,  the  whipping  that  for  months 
he  had  so  sorely  needed. 

A  moment  later  a  little  ruddy  brown  bundle  came 
tumbling  over  the  holly  bush,  and  Merrylips,  in  all 
haste,  turned  herself  into  a  boy.  She  kept  her  own 
worsted  stockings  and  stout  country-made  shoes. 
Over  her  own  plain  little  smock  she  drew  the  ruddy 


108  MERRYLIPS 

brown  breeches,  which  she  gartered  trimly  at  the  knee, 
and  the  ruddy  brown  doublet,  with  the  slashed  sleeves 
and  the  pretty  buttons  of  gilt.  She  unbound  the  lace 
that  tied  her  hair  and  shook  her  flyaway  mop  about  her 
face.  Her  hair  was  so  curly  that  it  had  never  grown 
long  enough  to  fall  below  her  shoulders,  and  that  was 
a  very  fit  length  for  a  little  Cavalier.  She  tied  Herbert's 
white  collar  round  her  neck.  Last  of  all  she  set  Her- 
bert's felt  hat  upon  her  head,  and  then  she  was  ready. 

But  she  did  not  feel  at  all  as  she  had  thought  she 
should  feel.  Instead  of  feeling  bold  and  manly,  she 
was  suddenly  afraid  lest,  in  spite  of  the  clothes,  she 
should  not  be  boy  enough  to  please  Munn.  So  great 
was  her  fear  that  she  stood  shrinking  behind  the  holly 
bush  till  she  heard  Munn  call,  a  little  impatiently. 
Then  she  crept  out,  with  her  head  hanging. 

Munn  looked  at  her,  and  gave  a  whistle  between  his 
teeth  —  a  whistle  of  dismay.  He  had  thought  her  a 
boyish  little  girl,  but  he  saw  her  now  a  very  girlish 
little  boy.  He  doubted  if,  when  they  came  to  Monks- 
field,  he  could  keep  up  for  one  moment  the  deception 
that  he  had  planned.  But  come  what  might,  he  knew 
that  he  had  now  gone  too  far  to  draw  back.  After  the 
rough  way  in  which  he  had  let  Master  Herbert  be  used, 
he  dared  not  leave  his  little  sister  in  the  hands  of 
Herbert's  kin. 


IN  BORROWED   PLUMES  109 

"Into  the  saddle  with  thee !"  he  bade  more  cheerily 
than  he  felt. 

He  had  to  help  Merrylips  to  his  horse's  back.  When 
he  had  vaulted  into  the  saddle  behind  her  and  put  his 
arm  about  her,  he  felt  that  she  was  quivering  with  ex- 
citement and  nervousness.  He  called  himself  a  fool  to 
have  ventured  on  such  a  hare-brained  prank. 

But  just  then  Stephen,  who  all  this  time  had  held 
Herbert  silent  with  a  hand  upon  his  mouth,  let  go  of 
him  in  order  that  he  might  mount  his  horse.  And 
straightway  up  jumped  Herbert,  right  by  Munn's 
stirrup,  half  in  and  half  out  of  Merrylips'  gown,  with 
his  face  all  smeared  with  tears. 

_  "Oh,  thou  Sybil  Vernier!"    he  wailed.     "I'll  tell 
my  mother !    I'll  — " 

Then  Merrylips  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed, 
with  the  color  bright  in  her  cheeks  once  more. 

"See  how  thou  dost  like  it  thyself  to  walk  in  petti- 
coats!" she  cried.  "Go  tell  thy  mother  —  tell  her 
what  thou  wilt.  Thou  canst  tell  her  I'm  off  to  the  wars 
to  fight  for  the  king." 

"Well  said !"  laughed  Munn,  as  he  gathered  up  the 
reins.  "Upon  my  word,  I  believe  that  after  all  thou'lt 
do  thy  part  fairly,  Merrylips,  my  little  new  brother!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OFF   TO   THE  WARS 

As  they  rode  along  the  way  to  Storringham,  Munn 
gave  Merrylips  good  advice. 

"Look  to  it  thou  dost  not  swagger  nor  seek  to  play 
the  man,"  he  checked  some  fine  schemes  that  she  had 
hinted  at. 

"Be  just  as  thou  art,  and  let  them  think  thee  a  timid 
little  lad,  and  one  that  hath  been  reared  among  women. 
I'll  say  thou  art  not  overstrong,  and  under  that  pretext 
will  keep  thee  close,  for  the  most  part,  in  mine  own 
chamber,  till  I  find  means  to  send  thee  unto  Walsover. 
Ay,  ay !  We  may  win  through  in  safety.  For  Stephen, 
I  know,  will  be  faithful  and  hold  his  tongue." 

"Trust  me  for  that,  sir,"  cried  the  ex-serving-man, 
who  rode  close  behind.  "  I'll  never  betray  the  little 
distress  —  the  little  master,  I  should  say." 

Presently  Munn  spoke  again,  telling  Merrylips  what 
people  she  would  meet  at  Monksfield,  and  how  she 
should  bear  herself  toward  them. 

"Our  senior  captain,"  said  he,  "that"  commandeth 
our  garrison,  is  called  Tibbott  Norris.     He  is  a  soldier 

no 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS  III 

of  fortune  —  that  is,  he  hath  been  a  soldier  all  his  life 
b  for  hire  in  foreign  armies.  He  is  a  harsh,  stern  man, 
and  one  of  whom  many  folk  stand  in  fear,  and  with 
reason.  So  do  thou  be  civil  to  him  and  keep  thyself 
out  of  his  path." 

This  Merrylips  promised  to  do,  most  earnestly.  She 
was  a  little  frightened  at  the  mere  thought  of  this  Cap- 
tain Norris,  of  whom  her  big  brother  Munn  seemed 
himself  to  be  afraid.     She  found  his  very  name  fearful. 

"Tibbott!"  she  repeated.  "I  never  heard  of  any 
one  that  was  called  Tibbott." 

"Why,  no  doubt  he  was  christened  Theobald,"  said 
Munn.  "That  is  quite  a  common  name,  whereof 
Tibbott  is  a  byname." 

But  Merrylips  still  thought  Tibbott  an  odd  name,  so 
odd  that  she  said  it  over  to  herself  a  number  of  times. 

"Of  our  other  officers,"  Munn  went  on,  "the  junior 
captain  is  called  George  Brooke.  He  loveth  a  jest 
and  may  well  try  to  tease  thee,  but  do  not  fear  him. 
Neither  do  thou  be  too  saucy  and  familiar,  for  he  is 
shrewd  and  may  guess  that  thou  art  not  what  thou  dost 
seem.  Miles  Digby  is  his  lieutenant,  a  rough  com- 
panion and  apt  to  bully,  but  I'll  see  to  it  that  he  try 
__not  his  tricks  with  thee.  And  Brooke's  cornet  is  one 
Nick  Slanning,  somewhat  a  braggart,  but  a  good  heart 
and  will  do  thee  no  harm.     That's  our  officers'  mess  at 


112  MERRYLIPS 

Monksfield,  save  for  Eustace  Crashaw,  Captain  Norris's 
lieutenant,  and  him  thou  soon  shalt  see,  for  we  now  are 
drawing  nigh  unto  Storringham." 

In  the  last  moments  they  had  left  the  shelter  of  the 
wood,  through  which  Munn  had  prudently  shaped 
their  course.  They  now  were  riding  over  some  low, 
bare  hillocks.  As  they  reached  the  top  of  one  that  was 
higher  than  the  rest,  they  saw,  right  below  them,  a 
clump  of  trees,  and  rising  through  the  branches  were 
a  shingled  church  spire  and  a  number  of  thatched  roofs. 
Over  all,  trees  and  spire  and  roofs,  hung  a  murky 
film  which  thickened  at  the  centre  to  a  black  smear. 

"My  life  on't!"  cried  Munn.  "Lieutenant  Cra- 
shaw hath  been  smoking  these  pestilent  rebels." 

So  saying,  Munn  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  at  a 
round  trot  they  swung  down  the  hill  into  Storringham. 
Then  they  found  that  the  smoke  which  they  had  seen 
came  from  a  great  pile  of  corn  that  had  been  heaped 
in  the  open  space  before  the  church,  where  four  roads 
met,  and  set  afire.  Near  by  stood  three  great  wains, 
heaped  high  with  corn,  and  hitched  each  to  six  horses. 
Farther  along,  herded  in  one  of  the  narrow  roads,  a  drove 
of  frightened  cattle  were  plunging  and  tossing  their 
heads. 

Everywhere  there  were  dismounted  troopers.  They 
herded  the  cattle,  with  loud  shouts  and  curses.     They 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS  113 

piled  corn  upon  the  wains.  They  went  at  will  in  and 
out  of  the  cottages,  the  doors  of  which  stood  open. 
Oftenest  of  all  they  went  in  and  out  of  the  largest 
cottage,  which  seemed  a  tavern,  and  when  they  came  out, 
they  were  wiping  their  mouths  on  their  sleeves. 

In  the  midst  of  this  hurly-burly,  where  men  hurried 
to  and  fro,  and  cattle  plunged,  and  horses  stamped, 
and  dogs  barked,  a  little  group  of  people  stood  sadly 
by  the  smouldering  heap  of  wasted  corn.  They  were 
village  folk,  Merrylips  saw  at  once. 

Most  of  them  were  women,  and  of  these  some  wrung 
their  hands  and  wept,  and  some  cried  out  and  railed  at 
the  troopers.  Almost  all  had  young  children  clinging 
to  them.  There  were  not  many  men  among  them,  and 
these  were  mostly  old,  white-headed  gaffers  in  smock 
frocks.  But  one  or  two  were  lusty  young  fellows. 
Of  these  one  had  his  arm  bandaged,  and  another  sat 
nursing  his  broken  head  in  his  two  hands. 

Now  when  Merrylips  looked  at  these  unhappy  people, 
she  was  much  surprised.  She  had  thought  that  Stor- 
ringham,  which  the  gallant  Cavaliers  had  taken,  would 
be  a  strong  fort  with  walls,  and  that  the  people  in  it 
would  be  fierce  and  wicked  Roundheads.  But  now 
she  saw  that  Storringham  was  like  Cuckstead,  and  the 
Storringham  folk  were  like  the  Cuckstead  folk  who  were 
her  friends,  and  she  was  sorry  for  them. 


1 14  MERRYLIPS 

"How  did  it  chance  that  all  their  corn  was  burned?" 
she  asked  her  brother. 

"Faith,"  said  Munn,  quite  carelessly,  "Lieutenant 
Crashaw  bade  bring  all  the  corn  hither,  and  then,  it 
seemeth,  he  must  have  bidden  waste  what  we  could  not 
bear  away  for  our  own  use." 

Merrylips  turned  where  she  sat  before  him,  and 
looked  up  into  his  face. 

"But,  Munn,"  she  said,  "what  will  they  do  when 
winter  cometh,  and  they  have  no  corn  to  make  them 
bread?" 

"Why,  little  limber-tongue,"  Munn  answered,  "that 
concerneth  us  not  at  all.  These  folk  are  all  rebels, 
and  they  fired  upon  us  when  we  rode  into  their  vil- 
lage this  morn.  So  we  have  punished  them,  as  thou 
seest.     'Tis  the  way  of  war,  child." 

At  that  word  Merrylips  remembered  how  in  her 
heart  she  had  longed  for  war.  But  she  had  thought 
that  war  was  all  gallant  fighting  and  brave  deeds.  She 
had  never  dreamed  that  it  meant  wasting  poor  folk's 
food  and  making  women  cry. 

By  this  time  Munn  had  pulled  up  before  the  tavern, 
and  now  there  came  across  the  open  space  and  halted  by 
his  stirrup  a  fair-haired  gentleman,  with  a  drooping 
mustache  and  a  scrap  of  beard. 

"W-what  news?"  said  he,  speaking  with  a  little 
stammer. 


OFF  TO  THE  WARS  115 

Munn  saluted  him  and  told  him  that  he  had  seen  no 
sign  of  the  enemy  to  eastward.  So  respectfully  did  he 
speak  that  Merrylips  judged,  quite  rightly,  that  the 
fair-haired  gentleman  was  Munn's  superior  officer, 
Lieutenant  Crashaw. 

When  Munn  had  done  speaking,  the  lieutenant  looked 
at  Merrylips,  and  said,  with  a  smile :  — 

"W-what!  Have  you  b-been  child-stealing,  C-Cor- 
net  Venner?" 

Then  Munn  stiffened  himself,  holding  Merrylips 
tight,  for  he  knew  that  the  minute  of  trial  had 
come. 

"This  is  my  young  brother,"  he  said  slowly.  "He 
hath  been  reared  among  Puritan  kinsfolk  and  kept 
from  us  by  the  fortunes  of  war.  This  day  I  chanced 
upon  him  — " 

"Ch-chanced,  eh?"  said  Crashaw,  and  his  smile 
deepened,  so  that  Munn  grew  red. 

"Well,  well!"  Crashaw  went  on,  "you  d-did  wisely 
to  snatch  this  b-bantling  out  of  rebel  hands.  Fetch 
him  along,  and  we'll  m-make  a  m-man  of  him  —  if 
Captain  Norris  1-let  him  live  to  grow  up !  Now  1-let 
him  down  and  stretch  his  l-legs,  for  we'll  not  m-march 
hence  for  an  hour." 

Merrylips  found  herself  lifted  to  the  ground,  where 
she  stood  looking  about  her.     She  was  not  quite  sure 


Il6  MERRYLIPS 

what  she  should  do.  She  would  have  chosen  to  stick 
close  to  Munn's  heels,  but  she  feared  that  would  not  be 
like  a  boy.  So  she  stood  where  she  was  left,  and  anx- 
iously watched  Munn,  as  he  went  a  little  aside  and 
spoke  with  Lieutenant  Crashaw. 

While  the  two  young  men  were  talking  together,  a 
little  girl  ran  out  from  the  group  of  village  folk  and 
halted  before  them.  She  was  about  Merrylips'  own 
age,  with  a  shock  of  tawny  hair  and  chapped  little 
hands.  Her  gown  was  old  and  patched.  She  wore  no 
stockings,  and  her  little  apron,  which  she  kept  twisting 
between  her  hands,  was  all  soiled  with  dirt. 

"Kind  gentlemen,"  she  said,  in  a  scared  voice,  "will 
ye  not  be  good  to  give  back  our  cow  —  the  spotted  one 
yonder  with  the  crumpled  horn.  For  there's  Granny, 
and  Popkin,  and  Hodge,  and  Polly,  and  me,  and  we've 
naught  but  the  cush-cow  to  keep  us  —  sweet  gentle- 
men !" 

"R-run  away  with  thee,  little  rebel !"  said  Crashaw, 
not  unkindly,  but  much  as  he  would  have  spoken  to  a 
little  dog  that  was  troublesome. 

And  Merrylips'  own  brother  Munn,  that  was  so  good 
to  her,  said  carelessly :  — 

"If  you'll  believe  these  folk,  every  cow  in  the  herd  is 
the  only  maintenance  of  seven  souls  at  least. " 

The  little  girl  turned  away,  with  her  grimy  apron 


OFF  TO  THE   WARS  117 

twisted  tight  in  her  hands,  and  so  sorry  for  her  did 
Merrylips  feel  that  she  started  after  her. 

"Little  maid  I"  she  said,  and  fumbled  in  her  pocket. 

In  that  pocket,  when  she  had  changed  into  Herbert's 
clothes,  she  had  remembered  to  put  her  own  whittle 
and  three  half-pence  that  Mr.  Lowry  had  given  her. 
She  pulled  out  the  half-pence  now,  and  said  she: — 

"  Prithee,  take  these,  and  I  would  they  were  more, 
and  I  be  main  sorry  for  thy  cush-cow. " 

But  the  little  girl  with  the  tawny  hair  turned  upon  her 
like  a  little  fury. 

"I  do  hate  thee  for  one  of  'em!"  she  cried.  "I'd 
fain  see  thee  dead,  thou  wicked  boy !" 

As  she  spoke,  smack !  she  struck  Merrylips  a  sound- 
ing blow  right  across  the  face. 

"Hey!  Hey!"  said  Lieutenant  Crashaw,  laughing. 
"C-close  with  her,  young  Venner !  Strike  for  the 
k-king!" 

Merrylips  blinked  and  swallowed  hard,  for  the  blow 
had  not  been  a  light  one. 

"I  am  —  a  gentleman,"  she  answered  jerkily.  "I 
may  not  strike  —  a  girl." 

She  turned  away  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the 
tavern  door.  Presently  she  picked  up  a  bit  of  stick 
and  marked  with  it  in  the  dirt  at  her  feet. 

In  this  fashion  she  was  busied,  when  she  heard  a 


Il8  MERRYLIPS 

step  beside  her.  She  looked  up,  and  found  the  lieu- 
tenant standing  over  her.  She  saw,  too,  that  Munn 
was  gone,  and  Stephen  with  him,  and  she  felt  afraid, 
but  she  tried  not  to  show  it. 

"So  thou  art  too  good  a  g-gentleman  to  strike  a 
g-girl,  eh?"  said  Lieutenant  Crashaw. 

Merrylips  stood  up  civilly  when  he  spoke. 

"Ay,  sir,"  she  said,  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face. 

"And  too  young  a  g-gentleman  yet  to  k-kiss  a  girl, 
I  take  it?"  the  lieutenant  laughed,  and  then  he  looked 
sober  and  half-ashamed. 

"Thou  hast  r-ridden  far,"  he  said,  in  a  kind  voice. 
"Art  hungry,  b-belike?" 

Then  he  called  in  at  the  open  window  of  the  tavern, 
and  speedily  a  flurried  serving-man  came  out.  In 
his  hands  he  brought  a  great  piece  of  bread,  on  which 
a  slice  of  beef  was  laid,  and  a  hunch  of  cheese,  and  a  pot 
of  beer,  which  he  placed  on  the  bench  by  Merrylips. 

" 'Tis  g-good  trooping  fare,"  said  Crashaw.  "D- 
down  with  it,  my  gallant,  and  till  thy  b-brother  cometh 
again,  I'll  have  an  eye  to  thee." 

So  Merrylips  sat  down,  and  in  spite  of  the  bustle 
round  her  and  the  anxiety  which  she  felt  at  finding 
herself  without  Munn  in  this  strange  place,  she  made  a 
hearty  meal,  for  indeed  she  was  hungry. 


OFF  TO  THE   WARS  II9 

While  she  ate,  she  saw  a  squadron  of  the  troopers 
mount  on  horseback  and  set  the  herd  of  cattle  in  motion. 
Soon  horses  and  cattle  and  men  had  all  disappeared  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  Next  the  wains  full  of  corn  were  started 
from  the  village.  Then,  at  last,  when  Merrylips  had 
long  since  eaten  her  luncheon  and  had  kicked  her 
heels  for  a  weary  while,  Munn  Venner,  on  a  fresh  horse, 
came  clattering  through  the  village  and  reined  up  be- 
fore the  tavern. 

Munn  leaped  from  the  saddle,  and  ran  to  speak  to  the 
lieutenant.  What  he  said,  Merrylips  had  no  way  of 
knowing,  but  she  saw  Lieutenant  Crashaw  turn  to  his 
trumpeter,  who  stood  near.  The  trumpeter  blew  a 
blast  that  echoed  through  the  village,  and  speedily 
troopers  began  to  straggle  in  from  cottages  and  lanes 
and  rick-yards  and  get  to  horse. 

Then  Munn  beckoned  to  Merrylips,  and  she  ran  to 
him,  and  waited  for  his  orders. 

"Were  it  not  best,  sir,"  Munn  said  to  the  lieutenant, 
"that  this  little  one  be  placed  in  the  van?  " 

"Munn!"  whispered  Merrylips.  "Am  I  not  to 
ride  with  thee?" 

"Hush!"  he  bade.  "I  shall  be  in  the  rear  of  the 
troop,  where  my  place  is.  There  is  no  danger," 
he  added  hastily,  "but  'tis  better  thou  shouldst 
be  in  the  front  of  our  squadron.    Have  no  fear !     With 


120  MERRYLIPS 

Lieutenant  Crashaw's  good  leave,  I'll  give  thee  into  the 
care  of  a  trooper  I  can  trust." 

The  lieutenant  nodded,  as  he  turned  away  to  give 
some  orders,  and  Munn  raised  his  voice :  — 

"Hinkel!    Come  hither !" 

At  that  word  a  burly,  thick-set  man,  who  had  been 
bent  down,  tightening  a  saddle-girth,  at  the  farther 
side  of  the  way,  came  hurrying  across  to  Munn  and 
stood  at  salute. 

"Take  this  lad,  my  brother,"  bade  Munn,  "and 
bear  him  on  your  horse,  and  see  to  it,  Hinkel,  that  you 
bring  him  safely  unto  Monksfield." 

"Ja,  mein  Herr!"   said  Hinkel. 

At  the  sound  of  that  guttural  voice  Merrylips  gave 
a  little  cry.  Looking  up,  she  looked  into  a  low-browed 
face  that  she  remembered.  In  the  trooper  Hinkel 
she  saw  the  same  man  that  months  before  at  Larkland 
she  had  known  as  the  runaway  Claus. 


CHAPTER  XV 

TIDINGS   AT   MONKSFIELD 

So  Merrylips  was  perched  on  the  saddle  in  front  of 
Claus  Hinkel.  And  for  the  first  half  mile  that  she 
rode,  she  wondered  what  would  happen  to  her,  now  that 
she  was  left  in  the  care  of  the  man  whom  she  so  dis- 
trusted. 

For  the  next  half  mile  she  had  a  new  fear.  What  if 
Claus  should  recognize  her  as  the  little  maid  that  he 
had  seen  at  Larkland,  and  tell  every  one  that  she  was 
no  boy  ?  But  she  must  have  been  wholly  changed  by 
eighteen  months  of  time  and  the  boy's  dress.  Though 
she  held  her  breath  and  waited  to  hear  Claus  tell  her 
secret,  hers  and  Munn's,  he  said  not  a  word. 

By  this  time  Merrylips  and  Claus  had  worked  their 
way  through  the  mass  of  men  with  whom  they  had  left 
Storringham.  They  had  now  caught  up  with  the  van- 
guard, which  had  marched  out  of  the  village  an  hour 
before  them.  With  the  van  went  the  creaking  wains 
and  the  herd  of  cattle.  Over  all  hung  a  cloud  of  dust 
that  shone  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

Soon  the  sun  had  sunk  in  a  red  smear  of  cloud  be- 
hind the  hills  to  westward.     Over  the  brown  fields  that 

121 


122  MERRYLIPS 

lay  on  either  hand  the  twilight  fell.  In  the  hollows  and 
where  the  road  wound  beneath  trees  it  was  quite  dark. 
Merrylips  could  see  the  men  and  horses  round  her  only 
as  dim  shapes  in  the  blackness.  But  all  the  time  she 
could  hear  the  padding  of  hoofs  on  the  road,  the  jingle 
of  bits,  the  squeak  of  stirrup  leathers,  and  the  heavy 
breathing  of  horses  and  of  men. 

From  time  to  time,  too,  she  heard  sharp  orders  from 
Lieutenant  Crashaw,  who  rode  at  the  head  of  the  troop, 
and  low  mutterings  that  passed  from  man  to  man. 
They  were  moving  slowly,  because  of  the  darkness  and 
because  of  the  cattle  and  the  wains,  which  could  not 
be  hurried.  She  felt  that  all  were  uneasy  at  this  slow- 
ness, and  then  she  herself  became  uneasy. 

After  what  seemed  a  long,  long  time  the  moon  broke 
through  the  clouds  and  flung  black  shadows  on  the  road. 
They  moved  a  little  faster  now.  Presently  they  passed 
through  a  straggling  village  that  lay  along  a  brook. 
No  lights  were  burning  in  the  cottages,  and  many  of 
the  doors  stood  open  to  the  night  wind.  From  the 
talk  of  the  men  about  her  Merrylips  guessed  that  the 
Cavaliers  had  served  this  village  as  they  had  served 
Storringham,  later  in  the  morning,  and  that  in  fear  of 
their  return  the  village  folk  had  stolen  away. 

In  all  the  length  of  the  village  they  heard  no  sound, 
except  the  dreary  howling  of  a  dog,  far  off  in  the  dark- 


TIDINGS   AT   MONKSFIELD  1 23 

ness.  They  saw  no  human  creature,  until  they  came 
to  a  little  bridge,  by  which  they  must  cross  the  stream. 
There,  on  the  parapet,  a  lean  man  in  fluttering  rags 
sprang  up  and  mowed  and  gibbered  at  them. 

"Hey!  Go  bet!"  he  cried,  in  a  shrill  voice  that 
showed  that  his  mind  was  empty.  "Whip  and  spur! 
Whip  and  spur !  Hatcher  of  Horsham  will  learn  ye 
better  speed.  Ride,  ride,  ye  robbers !  Ye'll  never 
outride  Hatcher  and  his  men." 

One  of  the  troopers  that  rode  near  to  Merrylips 
swung  his  carabine  to  his  shoulder.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  heard  a  shot  fired  in  anger.  She  bit 
her  lip  not  to  scream.  But  the  crazy  man  was  not  hurt. 
He  leaped  from  the  parapet,  and  before  another  shot 
could  be  fired  was  out  of  sight  among  the  shadows  of 
the  bushes  that  grew  along  the  brookside. 

Lieutenant  Crashaw  came  pushing  to  the  spot  and 
soundly  rated  the  man  that  had  fired.  Then  he  turned 
his  horse  to  the  rear,  and  trotted  away  down  the  moon- 
lit road. 

From  that  time  Merrylips  could  not  help  glancing 
over  her  shoulder  every  now  and  then.  She  wondered 
what  might  be  happening  in  the  rear.  And  with  all 
her  heart  she  wished  that  Munn  were  at  her  side,  or 
even  Stephen  Plasket. 

They  had  left  the  village  well  behind  them,  but  they 


124  MERRYLIPS 

still  were  following  the  road  along  the  brook.  Then, 
above  the  creak  of  the  wains  and  the  clatter  of  the  horses' 
feet,  Merrylips  heard  a  sound  that  made  her  think  of 
the  beat  of  heavy  hailstones  on  the  leaded  panes  at 
Larkland. 

"Hark  'ee!"    said  Claus  to  the  trooper  beside  him. 

"Ay,"  said  the  latter. 

He  turned  in  the  saddle  to  listen.  All  the  while 
the  spatter  of  the  hailstones  sounded  through  the  night. 

"The  fat's  i'  the  fire  now,"  said  the  trooper.  "  'Tis 
yonder  at  Loxford  village,  and  a  pestilence  place  for 
an  ambuscado!" 

The  corporal  who  was  left  in  charge  of  the  squadron 
came  riding  then  along  their  line,  with  sharp  orders. 
Promptly  the  men  fell  silent.  They  closed  their  ranks, 
and  with  little  rustlings  and  clickings  looked  to  their 
primings  and  loosened  their  swords  in  their  scabbards. 

Still  the  hailstones  spattered  in  their  rear.  Merry- 
lips  knew  now  that  she  was  listening  to  the  crack  of 
carabines.     Through  all  her  body  she  began  to  tremble. 

The  rest  of  that  strange  night  she  remembered  dimly. 
They  rode  on  and  on,  in  a  tense  silence.  They  flogged 
forward  the  wain-horses  and  the  cattle,  and  some  of 
them  they  had  to  leave  behind.  They  met  a  great 
body  of  horsemen  who  were  friends,  sent  out  to  help 
them.     They  came   to  a   vast  pile  of  buildings,   set 


TIDINGS  AT  MONKSFIELD  125 

apart  in  a  field,  where  there  was  a  sheet  of  water  that 
gleamed  dully  in  the  moonlight.  They  rode  through 
an  arched  gateway,  past  sentries,  into  a  big  courtyard, 
where  torches  were  flaring.  Merrylips  knew  then  that 
at  last  they  had  come  in  safety  to  Monksfield. 

She  felt  herself  lifted  from  the  saddle,  and  stood  upon 
a  bench  against  a  stable  wall. 

"Stay  ye  there,  master,"  she  heard  Claus  say. 
"Cornet  Venner  will  speedily  be  here." 

For  a  weary  while  Merrylips  stood  there,  and  watched 
the  crowd.  The  courtyard  was  choked  with  frightened 
cattle  and  horses,  and  men  that  tried  to  clear  the  press, 
and  officers  that  shouted  orders.  But  she  seemed 
to  be  unnoticed  by  them  all. 

She  was  very  tired  with  riding  all  day  long.  She 
was  frightened,  too,  at  the  strangeness  of  the  place  in 
which  she  stood,  and  troubled  at  Munn's  not  coming. 
If  she  had  not  promised  her  brother  to  be  brave,  she 
felt  that  she  should  have  cried. 

From  time  to  time  she  shut  her  eyes.  She  was  so 
tired !  Once,  as  she  did  so,  she  reeled  and  almost 
fell  off  the  bench.  Then  she  grew  afraid  that  she 
might  fall  and  be  trampled  on  by  the  cattle,  so  she  left 
the  bench  and  crept  into  a  shed  that  stood  close  by. 
There  she  sat  down  on  a  truss  of  straw  to  wait  for 
Munn.    When  he  did  not  come,  she  thought  it  no  harm 


126  MERRYLIPS 

to  lie  down.  She  could  wait  for  him  just  as  well  lying 
down  as  sitting,  and  she  was  very  tired. 

It  might  have  been  minutes  later,  or  hours  later, 
when  Merrylips  woke  up.  It  still  was  night,  and  the 
torches  were  burning,  but  the  courtyard  now  was 
cleared  of  cattle.  She  sat  up  in  the  straw,  and  at  first 
she  scarcely  knew  where  she  was,  or  how  she  came  there, 
or  anything,  except  that  she  was  lame  and  tired  and 
cold. 

Then  she  saw,  standing  over  her,  a  man  who  must 
have  wakened  her.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  looked 
again,  and  now  she  saw  that  it  was  Lieutenant  Crashaw. 
He  wore  his  doublet  bound  about  his  neck  by  the  two 
sleeves,  and  his  left  hand  rested  bandaged  in  a  sling. 

For  a  moment  she  stared  at  him,  and  wondered,  for 
she  had  not  remembered  him  like  that.  Then  she  came 
to  herself. 

"Where's  Munn?"  she  asked.  "Where's  my 
brother?" 

"My  1-lad,"  said  Crashaw,  gravely,  "thy  b-brother 
is  not  here,  nor  will  be  here  for  1-long." 

Then,  while  Merrylips  stared  speechless  into  his 
haggard  face  and  seemed  to  see  it  far  off,  Crashaw 
went  on :  — 

"The  Roundheads  from  Horsham  —  C-Colonel 
Hatcher  and  a  troop  of  dragoons  —  set  upon  our  rear 


TIDINGS  AT   MONKSFIELD  12? 

at  L-Loxford  village.  And  one  of  our  troopers,  Plasket, 
had  his  h-horse  shot  under  him.  And  thy  b-brother 
like  a  g-gallant  fool,  reined  up  to  take  the  f-fellow  up 
behind  him.  And  so  the  rebels  c-closed  with  him. 
And  so,  my  1-lad,  we  had  to  leave  thy  b-brother  and  the 
trooper,  Plasket,  p-prisoners  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BROTHER   OFFICERS 

When  Merrylips  next  woke,  she  wondered  for  a 
minute  where  she  was.  Then  she  remembered  last 
night.  She  remembered  how  Lieutenant  Crashaw  had 
led  her  across  the  courtyard,  and  through  dim  halls 
and  passages,  and  up  a  narrow  stair.  She  remembered 
how  he  had  opened  the  door  of  a  little  chamber  and  had 
said :  — 

"This  is  thy  b-brother's  quarters.  Thou  canst 
1-lie  here  for  now." 

So  it  was  Munn's  own  room  in  which  she  woke. 
Munn's  coats  hung  on  the  wall,  and  on  the  table,  be- 
neath the  window,  were  paper  and  ink  and  two  bitten 
apples.  Munn  must  have  sat  there,  writing  and  eating, 
before  he  started  on  the  march  from  which  he  had  not 
come  back. 

At  the  thought  of  her  lost  brother,  Merrylips  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow.  She  was  sorry  for  Munn,  who  was 
left  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  cruel  Roundheads. 
And  she  was  sorry  for  herself,  too,  and  sorely  afraid  of 
what  might  happen  to  her.     For  if  it  had  seemed  hard 

128 


BROTHER  OFFICERS  1 29 

to  be  a  boy  at  Monksfield,  when  Munn  was  to  be  there 
to  help  her,  what  did  it  not  seem,  now  that  he  was  taken 
from  her  and  she  was  left  to  play  her  part  alone  ? 

Still,  she  never  dreamed  of  telling  any  one,  not  even 
friendly  Lieutenant  Crashaw,  that  she  was  a  little  girl. 
She  had  promised  Munn  to  bear  herself  as  a  boy,  as 
long  as  she  stayed  at  Monksfield.  And  a  gentleman 
must  keep  his  promise,  whatever  might  happen. 

So  presently,  as  a  little  boy,  she  should  have  to  meet 
those  brother  officers  that  Munn  had  told  her  about. 
She  thought  of  Captain  George  Brooke,  who  would 
tease,  and  Lieutenant  Miles  Digby,  who  was  apt  to 
bully,  and  Captain  Tibbott  Norris,  from  whose  path 
she  had  been  warned  to  keep  herself.  She  felt  that 
she  should  never,  never  have  the  courage  to  show  her 
face  among  them. 

But  as  the  morning  passed,  poor  Merrylips  grew 
hungry.  And  she  doubted  if  there  was  any  one  in 
Monksfield  who  would  bring  dinner  to  a  lazy  little 
boy  that  stayed  in  bed. 

So  she  got  up,  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  smoothed 
her  doublet  and  breeches,  which  she  had  sadly  rumpled 
in  her  sleep.  Then  she  took  from  the  wall  an  old  red 
sash  and  tied  it  round  her  waist  in  a  huge  bow.  It 
was  an  officer's  sash,  and  Munn's  sash,  too.  Some- 
how she  felt  braver  when  she  had  it  on. 


130  MERRYLIPS 

Like  a  little  soldier  and  Munn's  brother,  she  marched 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs  into  a  flagged 
corridor.  Right  before  her  she  saw  a  door  that  was 
ajar,  and  in  the  room  beyond  she  heard  a  murmur  of 
men's  voices.  She  shrank  back,  but  just  then  she 
smelled  the  savor  of  bakemeat.  And  indeed  she  was 
very  hungry ! 

So  she  sidled  through  the  crack  of  the  door,  like 
a  very  timid  little  boy.  She  found  herself  in  a  rude 
old  hall,  which  was  paved  with  stone  and  very  damp, 
in  spite  of  the  great  fire  that  blazed  upon  the  hearth. 
Against  the  wall  were  benches,  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  was  an  oaken  table  on  which  dinner  was  set 
out  —  a  chine  of  beef,  and  a  bakemeat,  and  leathern 
jacks  full  of  beer. 

Round  the  table,  on  forms  and  stools,  were  seated 
five  men,  who  all  wore  the  red  sashes  of  Cavalier  officers. 
At  the  sound  of  Merrylips'  step  on  the  echoing  floor, 
they  looked  up,  every  one  of  them.  In  her  alarm,  she 
came  near  dropping  them  a  courtesy  like  a  girl. 

"  Yonder' s  1-little  Venner,  whereof  I  told  you,  sir," 
spoke  a  voice  that  Merrylips  remembered  for  Lieuten- 
ant Crashaw's. 

Then  a  harsh  voice  that  she  did  not  remember  struck 
in:  — 

"Come  you  hither,  sirrah!" 


BROTHER  OFFICERS  I3I 

A  long,  long  way  it  seemed  to  Merrylips  she  went. 
She  crossed  the  floor  that  echoed  in  a  startling  manner. 
She  passed  the  faces  that  were  bent  upon  her.  At 
last  she  halted  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

The  man  who  sat  there  was  dark,  and  ill- shaven, 
and  bearded,  and  his  hair  was  touched  with  gray.  His 
leathern  coat  was  worn  and  stained,  and  his  great  boots 
were  muddied.  Yet  Merrylips  did  not  doubt  that  he 
was  commander  in  that  place.  This  was  the  man  whom 
even  her  big  brother  feared  —  the  dreaded  Captain 
Tibbott  Norris. 

For  a  moment  Captain  Norris  looked  at  Merrylips, 
and  she  looked  bravely  back  at  him,  for  all  that  she 
breathed  a  little  faster. 

"So  you're  Venner's  brother!"  he  said  at  last. 
"Well,  an  you  grow  to  be  as  gallant  a  lad  as  Venner, 
your  kinsmen  need  find  no  fault  in  you." 

When  Merrylips  heard  Captain  Norris,  whom  Munn 
had  feared,  praise  him  so  generously,  now  that  he  was 
gone,  she  wanted  to  cry.  But  she  blinked  fast  and  said, 
with  only  a  little  quaver :  — 

"I  thank  you  —  for  my  brother's  sake,  sir!" 

Captain  Norris  noticed  the  struggle  that  she  made. 
Into  his  sombre  eyes  there  came  a  spark  of  interest. 

"How  do  they  call  ye,  lad?"   he  asked. 

Before  she  had  thought,  out  popped  her  own  name. 


132  MERRYLIPS 

"Merrylips,  an't  like  you,  sir." 

She  heard  a  chuckle  go  round  the  table.  She  did 
not  realize  that  Merrylips  was  a  nickname  that  might 
be  given  to  a  boy  as  well  as  to  a  girl.  So  she  did  not 
dream  that  the  officers  were  laughing  at  a  little  boy 
who  told  his  pet-name  to  strangers.  Instead  she 
thought  that  she  had  told  her  secret  and  that  they  knew 
her  for  a  girl.  At  that  she  was  so  frightened  that  she 
hardly  knew  what  she  did. 

Captain  Norris  broke  out  impatiently :  — 

"No,  no,  ye  little  buffiehead !  I  asked  your  given 
name." 

In  her  fright  Merrylips  could  think  of  but  one  name, 
among  all  the  boys'  names  in  the  world.  That  was  the 
one  that  had  so  taken  her  fancy  the  day  before.  She 
knew  that  she  must  not  say  it.  But  while  she  was 
thinking  how  dreadful  it  would  be  if  she  did  say  it,  she 
let  it  slip  off  her  tongue :  — 

"Tibbott,  sir." 

Then  indeed  she  knew  that  Captain  Norris  would 
be  angry  at  her  for  taking  his  name.  She  would  have 
run  away,  if  she  had  not  been  too  scared  to  move. 

Strangely  enough,  Captain  Norris  did  not  seem 
angry.  He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
gave  a  sort  of  laugh,  which  the  men  around  him  echoed. 
Indeed,  to  them  it  seemed  droll,  that  such  a  scrap  of 


He  laid  a  hand  on  Merrylips'  shoulder  and  drew  her  TO  KIM. 


BROTHER   OFFICERS  1 33 

a  lad  should  bear  the  very  name  that  Captain  Norris 
had  made  feared  through  all  the  countryside. 

"My  namesake,  are  you?"   said  Captain  Norris. 

He  laid  a  hand  on  Merrylips'  shoulder,  but  not 
unkindly,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"Sit  you  down,  sir,"  he  bade,  "and  do  me  the  honor 
to  dine  with  me,  Master  Tibbott." 

So  Merrylips  sat  beside  Captain  Norris,  on  the  form 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  ate  her  share  of  the  bake- 
meat,  like  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman.  She  meant  to  be 
as  still  as  a  mouse,  for  she  bore  in  mind  all  Munn's 
warnings.  But  when  she  was  spoken  to,  she  had  to 
answer,  and  she  was  spoken  to  a  great  deal. 

For  those  tall  officers  were  very  tired  of  doing  and 
saying  the  same  thing,  day  after  day.  They  were  as 
pleased  with  this  round-eyed,  sober  little  boy  as  Merry- 
lips herself  would  have  been  with  a  new  plaything. 
They  chaffed  her  and  asked  her  foolish  questions,  only 
to  make  her  talk. 

Captain  George  Brooke,  who  was  tall,  with  shrewd 
eyes,  asked  her  if  she  hoped  to  win  a  commission  be- 
fore Christmastide.  Nick  Slanning,  who  was  hardly 
older  than  Merrylips'  brother  Longkin,  wished  to  know 
how  many  rebels  she  thought  she  could  kill  in  a  day. 
And  when  dinner  was  eaten  and  the  men  were  lighting 
their  pipes,  Miles  Digby  urged  her  to  take  tobacco  with 
him 


134  MERRYLIPS 

Merrylips  drew  back,  a  little  frightened,  but  there 
Captain  Norris  struck  in. 

"Let  the  child  be,"  he  ordered  sternly.  "He's  over- 
young  for  such  jesting,  Digby." 

For  the  first  time  in  hours  Merrylips  smiled.  She 
moved  a  little  nearer  to  Captain  Norris.  Indeed,  she 
would  have  much  liked  to  say  to  him,  "Thank  you!" 

But  just  at  that  moment  the  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  a  boy  came  into  the  mess-room.  He  did  not  come 
timidly,  as  Merrylips  had  come.  He  clanged  across 
the  floor,  swaggering  like  a  trooper,  with  his  head  up. 
He  wore  a  sleeveless  leathern  coat,  as  if  he  were  a  truly 
soldier. 

At  first  Merrylips  was  so  envious  of  that  coat  that  she 
did  not  look  at  the  boy's  face.  But  when  he  halted 
at  Captain  Brooke's  side  and  swung  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  in  salute,  she  looked  up.  Then  she  saw  that 
he  was  a  handsome  boy,  brown-haired  and  gray-eyed, 
and  she  knew  him  for  Rupert,  Claus  Hinkel's  little 
comrade  in  the  far-off  times  at  Larkland. 

Now  Merrylips  might  have  guessed  that  if  Claus  were 
at  Monksfield,  Rupert  would  be  there  too.  But  she 
had  not  thought  about  it  at  all,  so  now  she  was  taken 
aback  at  the  sight  of  him. 

She  heard  Rupert  say  something  J:o  Captain  Brooke 
about  what  the  farrier  said  of  a  horse  that  was  sick. 


BROTHER   OFFICERS  1 35 

She  did  not  much  heed  the  words.  Indeed,  Rupert 
himself  seemed  to  make  them  only  an  excuse  for 
coming  to  the  mess-room.  He  lingered,  when  he  had 
done  his  errand,  as  if  he  waited  to  be  spoken  to.  But 
the  officers  all  were  busy  talking  to  Merrylips. 

They  scarcely  noticed  Rupert  till  they  all  rose  from 
table.     Then  Captain  Brooke  said :  — 

"Here,  young  Venner !  Yonder's  a  playfellow  of 
your  own  years.     Go  you  with  Rupert  Hinkel." 

So  Merrylips  was  dismissed,  with  a  clap  on  the 
shoulder.  And  presently  she  found  herself  outside  the 
house,  in  a  little  walled  space  that  once  had  been  a 
garden. 

There  she  stood  and  looked  at  Rupert,  and  Rupert 
looked  at  her.  His  cheeks  were  red,  and  his  level 
brows  were  knit.  She  knew  that  she  disliked  and  feared 
him,  because  he  had  run  away  from  Larkland.  And 
she  felt  that  he  disliked  her  twice  as  much,  but  she 
could  not  guess  why. 

"Shall  we  sit  and  tell  riddles?"  drawled  Rupert. 
"Thou  art  overyoung  for  me  to  take  thee  where  the 
horses  are.  Thou  shouldst  not  be  in  garrison,  but 
at  home  wi'  thy  mother." 

"Thou  art  not  thyself  so  wonderful  old,"  Merrylips 
answered  hotly,    i 

Rupert  laughed. 


136  MERRYLIPS 

"Thy  sash  is  knotted  unhandily,"  he  said.  "Let 
me  put  it  aright.     Thou  hast  tied  it  like  a  girl." 

At  that  word  Merrylips  grew  red  and  frightened. 

"Do  not  thou  touch  it!"  she  cried.  "It  liketh  me 
as  it  is." 

She  spoke  so  angrily,  in  her  fright,  that  Rupert  grew 
angry  too. 

"In  any  case,"  he  said,  "thou  hast  no  right  to  wear 
that  sash.     Thou  art  no  officer." 

"Then,"  said  Merrylips,  "thou  hast  no  right  to  wear 
that  soldier's  coat.  Thou  art  thyself  but  a  young  lad 
and  no  soldier." 

Surely,  there  would  have  been  a  bitter  quarrel,  then 
and  there,  but  just  at  that  moment  Slanning  and  Lieu- 
tenant Crashaw  sauntered  into  the  garden. 

"Hola,  young  Venner!"  Slanning  sang  out. 

"Go  to  thy  friends!"  Rupert  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"They'll  use  thee  fairly.  I  care  not,  I!  'Tis  only 
little  boys  like  thou  are  fain  to  be  made  much  of." 

Then  Rupert  marched  away,  very  stiffly,  and  Merry- 
lips stood  wondering  what  it  was  all  about.  But  while 
she  was  wondering,  Slanning  and  Crashaw  came  to 
the  spot  where  she  stood.  They  set  to  playing  a  fine 
game  that  Merrylips'  brothers  had  often  played  at 
Walsover,  a  game  in  which  they  pitched  horseshoes  over 
a  crowbar  that  was  driven  into  the  ground  some  twenty 


BROTHER  OFFICERS  1 37 

paces  away.  And  part  of  the  time  they  let  Merrylips 
play  too. 

So  friendly  were  they  all  three  together  that  at  last 
Merrylips  ventured  to  ask  a  question. 

"If  it  like  you,  Cornet  Slanning,  may  I  not  wear  this 
sash,  even  though  I  be  not  an  officer?" 

"Who  saith  thou  art  not?"  Slanning  answered. 

Merrylips  shook  her  head.  Though  she  thought 
Rupert  a  rude  lad,  she  could  not  bear  tales  of  him. 

"I  —  I  did  but  wonder,"  she  stammered. 

"W-wonder  no  more!"  bade  Crashaw.  "To  be 
sure,  thou  art  an  officer — the  youngest  one  at  M-Monks- 
field,  and  b-brave  as  the  best,  eh,  Tibbott?" 

"I'll  try,  sir!"  Merrylips  answered,  and  saluted  him, 
just  as  Rupert  had  saluted  Captain  Brooke. 

And  she  did  not  see  why  those  new  brother  officers 
of  hers  should  have  laughed  aloud ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"who  can  sing  and  won't  sing — " 

As  soon  as  Merrylips  found  that  her  secret  was  safe 
and  that  she  seemed  to  every  one  a  little  boy,  she  enjoyed 
her  days  at  Monksfield  very  much.  Indeed,  she  would 
have  been  more  than  human,  if  she  had  not  been  pleased 
with  all  the  notice  that  she  won .  She  was  the  only  child  in 
a  garrison  of  men,  and  from  the  horseboys  in  the  stables 
to  the  officers  in  the  mess-room,  she  was  petted  by  all. 

The  saddlers  made  her  more  leathern  hand-balls  than 
she  could  ever  use.  The  smiths  let  her  tug  at  the  wheezy 
bellows  in  their  sooty  forge.  The  horseboys  set  her 
on  the  bare-backed  horses  when  they  led  them  to 
water.  Even  the  cross  men-cooks  in  the  fiery  kitchen 
made  her  sometimes  little  pasties  for  herself  alone. 

As  for  the  troopers,  they  were  all  her  friends.  They 
let  her  help  them,  when  they  cleaned  their  bright 
swords  or  scoured  their  carabines.  They  told  her 
endless  stories  of  battles  and  sieges  and  of  wicked 
Roundheads  that  dined  on  little  babies.  So  terrible 
were  these  stories  that  Merrylips  quite  shook  in  her 

138 


"WHO   CAN   SING   AND   WON'T   SING  —  "  1 39 

shoes  to  hear  them,  yet  she  could  not  help  asking  for 
more. 

Best  of  all,  the  officers,  whom  she  had  so  feared,  were 
almost  as  kind  as  if  they  had  been  her  own  big  brothers. 
They  laughed  at  her  and  chaffed  her,  to  be  sure,  as 
a  little  boy  who  had  been  reared  too  long  among  women, 
but  on  the  whole,  they  all,  even  rough  Miles  Digby, 
were  very  gentle  with  her. 

Sometimes  Merrylips  wondered  why  they  were  so 
kind.  But  it  was  not  until  she  was  much  older  that 
she  realized  that  she  owed  some  thanks  to  Captain 
Tibbott  Norris.  By  some  strange  impulse  that  big, 
harsh  man  was  moved  toward  the  bit  of  a  lad  that  bore 
his  own  name  of  Tibbott,  and  silently  he  stood  his 
friend. 

It  was  Captain  Norris  that  gave  Merrylips  her  broth- 
er's room  for  her  very  own.  It  was  Captain  Norris 
that  promised  to  send  her,  by  the  first  safe  convoy, 
to  her  kinsfolk  at  Walsover.  Above  all,  it  was  Captain 
Norris  that  from  the  very  first  made  all  his  followers, 
both  officers  and  men,  understand  that  little  Tibbott 
Venner  was  under  his  special  care.  After  that  it  would 
have  been  a  very  bold  man  that  would  have  harmed  little 
Tibbott  by  word  or  deed. 

So  Merrylips  passed  her  days  at  Monksfield,  safe 
and    unafraid.     Indeed    she   would   have    been    quite 


140  MERRYLIPS 

happy,  if  she  had  not  had  two  causes  for  grief  that 
never  let  her  be. 

The  first  was,  of  course,  the  loss  of  her  brother  Munn. 
At  night,  when  she  lay  in  his  bed,  she  would  think  of 
all  the  stories  that  she  had  heard  from  the  troopers 
of  the  cruel  way  in  which  the  Roundheads  used  their 
prisoners.  Then  she  would  seem  to  see  her  brother, 
haggard  and  pale  and  hungry,  shivering  half-clad  in 
some  dismal  prison,  and  perhaps  even  struck  and  abused 
by  his  jailers.  Often,  when  she  called  up  that  sorrow- 
ful picture,  she  would  have  cried,  if  she  had  not  prom- 
ised Munn  that  she  would  bear  herself  as  became  a 
boy. 

The  second  trouble,  not  so  deep  as  the  loss  of  Munn, 
but  always  present,  was  the  unfriendliness  that  Rupert 
showed  her.  He  seemed  the  only  soul  in  the  Monks- 
field  garrison  that  disliked  her,  and  all  the  time  she  was 
so  eager  to  be  friends  with  him ! 

At  the  outset,  to  be  sure,  Merrylips  had  been  shy  of 
Claus  and  Rupert,  for  she  remembered  how  her  god- 
mother had  suspected  them  for  spies.  But  when  she 
found  that  Claus  was  trusted  as  a  good  soldier  by  all 
the  officers,  who  were  her  friends,  she  dared  to  think 
that  her  godmother  perhaps  had  been  mistaken. 

So  now  there  was  nothing  to  keep  her  from  being 
Rupert's  playfellow,  as  she  had  planned  to   be,   long 


"WHO   CAN   SING  AND   WON'T   SING  —  "  141 

ago  at  Larkland.  At  least,  there  was  nothing  except 
their  squabble  on  her  first  day  at  Monksfield.  And 
that  she  was  ready  to  forgive  and  forget. 

She  tried  to  show  Rupert  that  she  was  willing  to 
meet  him  halfway,  if  he  wished  to  make  up.  She  put 
herself  into  his  path,  but  he  only  scowled  at  her  and  so 
passed  by.  She  hung  about,  smiling  and  trying  to  catch 
his  eye,  but  he  would  not  even  look  at  her.  She  could 
not  guess  why  he  should  hate  her  so. 

But  one  day  she  heard  a  horseboy  jeer  at  Rupert. 

"Thou  mayst  carry  thy  crest  lower  now,  young 
Hinkel,"  the  horseboy  laughed.  "Thou  art  level  wi' 
the  rest  of  us,  my  lad,  now  that  some  one  else  is  white- 
boy,  yonder  'mongst  the  gentry  coves." 

Very  slowly  Merrylips  began  to  see  what  she  had  done 
to  Rupert.  From  a  word  here  and  a  sentence  there 
she  gathered  that  before  she  came  to  Monksfield  he 
had  been  by  several  years  the  youngest  lad  in  the  gar- 
rison, and,  as  such,  a  favorite  with  the  officers.  They 
had  had  him  into  the  mess-room  to  sing  for  them,  when 
they  were  idle,  and  had  laughed  and  jested  with  him 
as  a  towardly  lad.  But  now  that  she  was  there,  a 
younger  child  and  a  newer  plaything,  Rupert  was  for- 
gotten by  his  patrons. 

When  Merrylips  found  that  she  had  taken  Rupert's 
place,  she  remembered  how  she  herself  had  felt  when 


142  MERRYLIPS 

Herbert  Lowry  came  to  Larkland,  where  for  such  a 
long  time  she  had  been  the  only  child.  With  all  her 
heart  she  was  sorry  for  Rupert,  and  she  wondered  how 
she  could  make  up  to  him  for  the  wrong  that  innocently 
she  had  done  him. 

While  Merrylips  was  wondering,  something  happened 
so  dreadful  that  she  feared  it  could  never  be  put  right. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  was  trudging  across  the  great 
court  at  Lieutenant  Digby's  side.  She  was  good 
friends  with  Lieutenant  Digby,  for  all  that  Munn  had 
thought  him  apt  to  bully.  He  had  been  teaching  her 
to  handle  a  quarter-staff,  and  had  given  her  some  hard 
knocks,  too.  But  a  little  boy  must  not  mind  hard 
knocks !  Merrylips  quite  swaggered  at  the  lieutenant's 
side,  and  as  she  went  whistled  —  or  thought  that  she 
whistled  !  —  most  boyishly. 

But,  to  her  surprise,  the  lieutenant  cried :  — 

"Name  o'  Heaven,  what  tune  is  it  thou  dost  so  mangle, 
lad  ?  Is  it  The  Buff-coat  hath  no  Fellow  thou  dost  hit 
at?  Yonder's  a  knave  can  sing  it  like  a  blackbird, 
and  shall  put  thee  right." 

Then,  before  Merrylips  had  guessed  what  he  meant 
to  do,  he  shouted :  — 

"Rupert !    Ay,  thou,  young  Hinkel !    Come  hither !  " 

Rupert  was  at  the  well  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard, 
where  he  was  drawing  a  bucket  of  water  for  the  cooks. 


"WHO   CAN   SING  AND   WON'T   SING—"  143 

He  must  have  heard  the  lieutenant,  for  he  looked  up; 
but  when  he  saw  that  Merrylips  was  with  him,  he  dropped 
his  eyes  and  did  not  stir. 

Then  Lieutenant  Digby  called  a  second  time,  and 
now  his  face  was  stern.  So  Rupert  came  unwillingly. 
He  slouched  across  the  court,  coatless,  with  his  sleeves 
turned  up,  and  halted  by  the  porch  where  the  lieutenant 
and  Merrylips  were  standing. 

"  Quicken  thy  steps  next  time,"  said  Lieutenant 
Digby,  "else  they'll  be  quickened  for  thee.  And  now 
thou'rt  here,  off  with  these  sullens  and  sing  The  Bufj- 
coat  for  Master  Venner." 

Rupert's  straight  brows  met  in  a  scowl. 

"I  winna  sing  for  him,"  he  said. 

As  he  spoke,  Rupert  caught  his  breath.  Suddenly 
Merrylips  realized  that  over  against  the  big  lieutenant  he 
was  but  a  little,  helpless  boy,  scarcely  older  than  her- 
self. She  knew  how  shamed  she  should  have  been, 
if  she  had  been  made  to  sing  for  Herbert  Lowry's 
pleasure.  She  felt  her  face  burn  with  pity  for  Rupert 
and  anger  at  Lieutenant  Digby. 

"I  do  not  wish  it!"  she  cried.  "He  shall  not  sing 
the  song  for  me,  I  tell  you  !" 

But  Lieutenant  Digby  did  not  heed  her  in  the  least. 
While  she  was  still"  speaking,  he  took  Rupert  by  the 
neck  and  struck  him  a  sounding  buffet. 


144  MERRYLIPS 

"Thou  wilt  not,  eh?"  he  said.  "Then  we'll  find 
means  to  make  thee." 

Merrylips  gave  one  glance  at  the  lieutenant's  set  face. 
Then  she  took  to  her  heels  and  never  stopped  running 
till  she  had  shut  the  door  behind  her  in  Munn's  chamber. 
She  knew  that  Lieutenant  Digby  meant  to  beat  Rupert 
till  he  was  willing  to  sing  the  song  for  her,  as  he  was 
bidden.  But  perhaps,  if  she  were  not  there,  he  would 
give  over  his  purpose.  And  if  not  —  oh  !  in  any  case 
she  could  not  bear  to  stay  and  see  Rupert  hurt. 

For  some  time  Merrylips  waited  in  the  chamber, 
while  she  wondered  what  was  happening  in  the  court 
below.  She  was  standing  by  the  window,  which  looked 
into  an  orchard,  and  beyond  the  orchard  was  a  great 
rampart  of  earth  that  had  been  flung  up  to  defend  the 
house  from  attack  upon  that  side. 

As  Merrylips  looked  out,  she  saw  Rupert  steal  across 
the  orchard  and  clamber  up  this  rampart.  For  a 
moment  she  hesitated.  Then  she  mustered  courage. 
She  slipped  down  the  stairs,  ran  out  of  the  house,  and 
followed  him. 

She  found  him  seated  on  the  top  of  the  rampart. 
He  was  resting  his  chin  in  his  two  hands,  and  he  had 
fixed  his  gaze  on  the  open  country  that  spread  away 
below  him  in  the  gathering  twilight.  -He  would  not 
look  round,  even  at  her  step. 


"WHO   CAN   SING  AND   WONT   SING  —  '*  145 

"Rupert,"  she  faltered,  as  she  halted  beside  him. 
"I  —  I  am  right  sorry." 

"Get  thee  away!"  he  answered  between  his  teeth. 
"I'm  a  gentleman's  son,  I,  as  well  as  thou.  I'll  not 
buffoon  for  thee  —  not  for  all  Miles  Digby  can  do!" 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  tried  to  speak  stoutly,  but 
his  face  was  quivering. 

"Get  thee  hence!"  he  cried  again,  and  turned  away 
his  head.  "I'll  not  be  made  a  gazing-stock,  I  tell  thee  ! 
Get  thee  away,  Tibbott  Venner,  thou  little  milksop ! 
Truth,  I  do  hate  the  very  sight  of  thee !" 

So  Merrylips  clambered  sadly  down  the  rampart  in 
the  twilight,  and  after  that  put  herself  no  more  in  Ru- 
pert's way.  But  she  thought  of  him  often,  and  when- 
ever she  thought  of  him,  she  was  sorry  for  him,  and 
sorry  for  herself,  as  if  she  had  lost  a  friend. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

TO  ARMS ! 

Foe.  two  weeks  and  more  Merrylips  had  lived  at 
Monksfield.  In  a  hole  in  her  mattress  she  had  hidden 
the  silver  ring  that  had  been  Lady  Sybil's.  As  long 
as  she  had  been  a  girl,  she  had  worn  the  ring  about 
her  neck,  but  she  felt  that  it  did  not  become  a  boy  to 
wear  it  so. 

She  had  changed  her  girlish  little  smock  for  one  of 
Munn's  loose  shirts.  Over  her  ruddy  brown  doublet 
she  wore  a  sleeveless  jerkin  of  leather,  which  had  been 
made  for  her  from  an  old  coat  of  Munn's.  In  her 
sash  she  carried  a  pistol  with  a  broken  lock  that  Nick 
Slanning  had  given  her. 

And  she  had  learned  to  cock  her  hat  like  Lieutenant 
Crashaw,  and  stride  like  Captain  Norris,  and  say, 
"Body  a'  truth!"  loud  and  fierce,  like  Lieutenant 
Digby.  In  short,  she  felt  that  she  now  was  truly  a  boy, 
such  as  all  her  life  she  had  hoped  to  be.  And  she  was 
willing  to  stay  and  be  a  boy,  there  at  Monksfield, 
forever  and  ever. 

146 


TO  ARMS  !  I47 

But  there  came  a  day  when  Merrylips  found  that 
things  were  different.  At  dinner  she  sat  unnoticed  by 
her  friends,  the  officers,  while  they  talked  of  beeves 
and  sacks  of  corn  and  kegs  of  powder.  Before  the 
meal  was  over  Lieutenant  Crashaw  left  the  mess- 
room,  and  Captain  George  Brooke  did  not  come  to 
table  at  all. 

When  Merrylips  went  among  her  friends,  the  troopers, 
she  found  them  busy  with  their  arms.  They  bade  her 
run  away,  or  else  told  her  the  grimmest  stories  that 
they  yet  had  told  about  the  cruelties  of  the  wicked 
Roundheads.  Still,  she  did  not  quite  catch  what  was  in 
the  air,  until  she  came  upon  Rupert.  She  found  him 
sitting  on  a  bench  against  the  stable  wall.  He  had  his 
sleeves  turned  up,  and  between  his  lips  he  held  a  straw, 
just  as  a  grown  man  would  have  held  a  pipe,  and  he 
was  cleaning  an  old  carabine. 

At  Merrylips'  step  Rupert  looked  up,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  days  spoke  to  her  of  his  own  accord. 

"Look  'ee,  Master  Venner,"  said  he,  "thou  wert  best 
be  at  home  wi'  thy  mammy.  The  Roundheads  will 
be  down  upon  us,  and  they  be  three  yards  tall,  every 
man  of  'em,  and  for  the  most  part  make  their  dinners 
off  babes  such  as  thou." 

Merrylips  felt  her  cheeks  grow  hot. 

"I've  lived  two  vears  amongst  the  Roundheads," 


I48  MERRYLIPS 

she  said,  "and  I  know  such  tales  be  lies,  and  thou 
art  a  Jack  fool  to  believe  'em." 

"Wait  and  see!"  laughed  Rupert,  and  then,  as  if 
he  were  glad  of  any  one  to  listen  to  him,  he  held  up  the 
carabine. 

"This  is  my  gun,"  he  said  proudly,  "and  I  shall 
be  fighting  with  it  at  Claus  Hinkel's  side.  I've  a  powder 
flask,  and  a  touch-box,  and  a  bullet  pouch,  and  a  piece 
of  match  as  long  as  thine  arm." 

"Pooh!"  sniffed  Merrylips,  though  indeed  she  was 
bitterly  jealous.     "I  have  a  pistol." 

"With  a  broken  lock,"  jeered  Rupert.  "To  be  sure, 
they'd  not  trust  thee  with  a  gun  —  a  little  lad  like  thou." 

"Do  thou  but  wait  and  see  what  I  shall  have !"  cried 
Merrylips,  hotly. 

"Ay,  we  shall  see  !"  said  Rupert. 

Then  Merrylips  walked  away,  with  a  stride  that  was 
like  Captain  Norris's.  At  that  moment  she  quite  hated 
Rupert,  and  she  did  not  believe  his  story  that  the 
Roundheads  were  coming  to  attack  Monksfield.  She 
was  sure  that  he  had  said  it  only  in  the  hope  of  frighten- 
ing her.  But  before  the  day  was  over,  she  found  that 
Rupert  had  spoken  the  truth. 

Late  in  that  same  afternoon  Merrylips  was  playing 
with  her  ball  in  a  little  paved  court  at'  the  north  side 
of  the  great  house.     In  the  old  days,  a  hundred  years 


TO  ARMS  !  I49 

before,  Monksfield  had  been  a  monastery,  and  many  of 
the  ancient  buildings,  with  their  quaint  flagged  court- 
yards, still  were  standing.  At  one  side  of  the  court 
where  Merrylips  played  was  a  wall  with  a  locked  gate 
that  led  into  what  had  been  the  herb  garden,  and  on 
this  garden  abutted  the  still-house  that  the  old  monks 
had  used. 

Presently  in  her  play,  Merrylips  cast  her  ball  clear 
over  this  wall.  She  did  not  wish  to  lose  her  toy,  so 
she  fetched  a  form  from  the  wash-house,  close  by, 
and  set  it  on  end  against  the  wall.  By  climbing  upon 
it,  she  was  able  to  scramble  over  into  the  garden. 

She  landed  in  a  pathway  of  sloping  flags,  along  which 
she  guessed  that  the  ball  must  have  rolled.  So  she 
followed  the  path  till  it  pitched  down  a  sunken  stair- 
way which  led  to  an  oaken  door  beneath  the  still- 
house.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  lay  the  ball,  and  she 
had  just  bent  to  pick  it  up,  when  the  door  opened,  right 
upon  her,  and  a  man  stepped  out. 

At  her  first  glance  Merrylips  saw  only  that  he  was 
a  rough  fellow,  in  a  smock  frock  and  frieze  breeches, 
and  coarse  brogues,  and  that  he  wore  a  patch  upon  one 
eye.  So  little  did  she  like  his  looks  that  she  turned  to 
run  up  the  steps,  faster  than  she  had  come  down,  but 
*ust  then  she  heard  her  name  spoken :  — 

"Tibbott  Vernier!?' 


150  MERRYLIPS 

The  voice  was  one  that  she  knew.  She  halted  and 
looked  again,  and  this  time,  under  the  black  patch  and 
the  walnut  juice  with  which  the  man's  face  was  stained, 
she  recognized  the  features  of  Captain  George  Brooke. 

"What  bringeth  you  hither?"  Captain  Brooke  asked 
sternly,  and  took  her  by  both  shoulders,  as  she  stood 
a  step  or  two  above  him  on  the  stairway. 

In  answer  Merrylips  held  out  the  ball. 

"Tibbott,"  said  the  captain  then,  less  sternly  but 
still  in  a  grave  voice,  "you  can  keep  a  secret,  can  you 
not?  Then  remember,  lad,  you  are  never  to  tell  to 
any  one  in  Monksfield  that  you  saw  me  come  from  the 
still-house  cellar,  nor  that  you  saw  me  in  this  garb. 
Promise  me !" 

Merrylips  shook  her  head.  She  feared  that  she 
should  anger  Captain  Brooke,  and  she  was  sorry,  for 
she  liked  him,  but  still  she  said :  — 

"I  cannot  promise.  I  must  tell  Captain  Norris  all 
that  I  have  seen." 

"Now  on  my  word!"  said  Captain  Brooke.  "Do 
you  think  me  about  some  mischief,  Tibbott  —  a 
traitor  plotting  to  betray  the  garrison,  perchance? 
Come,  then,  and  tell  all  unto  Captain  Norris,  an  you 
will,  you  little  bandog!" 

So  saying,  Captain  Brooke  locked  the  door  of  the 
cellar  with  a  key  that  he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  then 


TO  ARMS  !  151 

he  led  the  way  in  silence  across  the  herb  garden. 
Through  a  door  which  he  unlocked  they  entered  a 
wing  of  the  great  house,  where  sacks  of  flour  and  barrels 
of  biscuit  were  stowed.  There  he  took  down  a  cloak 
that  hung  upon  a  peg  and  cast  it  about  him,  so  that  his 
mean  garments  were  hidden,  and  he  laid  aside  the  patch 
that  was  over  his  eye. 

From  the  store-room  they  entered  a  long  passage, 
and  so,  by  corridors  that  Merrylips  knew  well,  came 
to  a  little  study  in  the  second  story.  There  they  found 
_Captain  Norris,  who  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  Captain 
Brooke. 

"You  come  late,  George,"  said  Captain  Norris. 
"I  thought  you  lost.     What  news?" 

"They  muster  three  hundred  dragoons  and  a  troop 
of  pioneers,  and  thereto  they  have  three  pieces  of  ord- 
nance, fetched  from  Ryeborough,"  reported  Captain 
Brooke.  "Peter  Hatcher  holdeth  the  chief  command, 
and  one  of  Lord  Caversham's  sons  is  there  besides, 
come  with  the  guns  from  Ryeborough.  Their  march 
is  surely  for  Monksfield,  and  they  are  like  to  be  upon  us 
ere  the  dawn." 

Now  when  Merrylips  heard  all  this,  she  knew  that 
Rupert  had  told  the  truth  and  that  the  Roundheads 
were  coming  to  attack  them.  At  that  thought  she 
felt  her  heart  beat  faster. 


152  MERRYLIPS 

To  be  sure,  she  had  lived  two  years  among  Round- 
heads. She  knew  that  they  were  not  three  yards 
tall  and  that  they  did  not  dine  on  babies,  —  at  least, 
not  at  Larkland.  But  she  had  heard  so  many  tales  of 
their  cruelty,  since  she  had  come  to  Monksfield,  that  she 
had  begun  to  think  that  the  Roundheads  who  went  to 
battle  must  be  very  different  from  Will  Lowry. 

Besides,  was  not  this  Hatcher  who  commanded  the 
enemy  the  selfsame  Hatcher  of  Horsham  that  had 
made  her  brother  Munn  a  prisoner?  It  was  no  won- 
der, perhaps,  that  when  Merrylips  thought  of  Colonel 
Hatcher,  she  had  to  ringer  her  pistol,  to  give  her- 
self courage. 

Just  then  Captain  Norris  seemed  for  the  first  time 
to  notice  her.  He  asked  sternly  what  she  was  doing 
there,  and  Captain  Brooke  told  him  how  Merrylips 
had  come  upon  him  at  the  still-house  and  would  not 
promise  to  be  silent. 

Merrylips  grew  quite  frightened,  so  vexed  and  im- 
patient both  men  seemed. 

"I  am  main  sorry,  sirs,"  she  faltered,  "but  indeed 
I  could  not  promise.  I'm  a  soldier,  and  a  soldier 
must  report  to  his  commander  a  thing  that  seemeth 
so  monstrous  strange." 

"A  soldier,  are  you?"  said  Captain  Norris.  "Well, 
some  day,  no  doubt,  you'll  be  one,  and  not  a  bad  one 


TO  ARMS  !  153 

neither.  But  for  now,  remember,  not  one  word  of 
what  you  have  seen  and  heard  this  afternoon!" 

"I  promise,  sir,"  Merrylips  answered,  and  saluted 
Captain  Norris,  as  his  officers  did,  and  marched  out 
of  the  room. 

She  was  very  proud  of  the  praise  that  Captain 
Norris  had  given  her,  and  of  the  secret  that  she 
shared  with  the  two  officers.  She  wished  only  that 
Master  Rupert,  with  his  gun,  knew  how  she  had  been 
honored ! 

Still,  she  could  not  help  wondering  how  Captain 
George  Brooke  had  learned  all  that  about  the  Round- 
heads in  the  cellar  of  the  still-house.  Perhaps  he  was 
a  wizard,  she  concluded,  and  she  so  frightened  herself 
with  that  thought  that  she  fairly  ran  through  the  dim 
passages,  and  never  stopped  till  she  reached  the  lighted 
mess-room. 

Well,  she  did  not  breathe  a  word,  of  course,  for  she 
had  given  her  promise.  It  must  have  been  Captain 
Norris  himself  that  had  the  news  spread  abroad  at 
Monksfield.  At  any  rate,  inside  an  hour  every  soul 
in  the  garrison  knew  that  they  were  likely  to  be  attacked 
at  daybreak. 

That  night  at  supper,  you  may  be  sure,  nothing  was 
talked  of  among  the  Monksfield  officers  but  the  num- 
bers and  the  strength  of  the  enemy. 


154  MERRYLIPS 

"So  one  of  my  lord  Caversham's  sons  is  of  the 
attacking  party?"  asked  Nick  Slanning. 

"What  would  you?"  said  Captain  Brooke,  who 
still  was  very  brown  of  face,  for  he  had  found  the  wal- 
nut stain  hard  to  wash  off. 

"They  are  all  rank  rebels,  the  whole  house  of  Caver- 
sham,"  he  went  on.  "His  Lordship,  old  Rob  Fowell, 
the  white-haired  hypocrite,  is  in  command  for  the 
Parliament  at  Ryeborough.  And  did  he  not  give  his 
eldest  daughter  in  marriage  to  that  arrant  Roundhead, 
Peter  Hatcher?  'Tis  but  in  nature  that  one  of  my 
lord's  hopeful  sons  should  march  against  us  at  Hatch- 
er's right  hand." 

"By  chance,  do  you  know  which  one  of  Caversham's 
sons  it  is  that  cometh  with  Hatcher?"  Lieutenant 
Digby  looked  up  suddenly  to  ask. 

"'Tis  the  third  son,  Dick  Fowell,"  Captain  Brooke 
made  answer. 

"Dick  Fowell?"  cried  Digby,  and  flushed  dully. 
"Heaven  be  thanked  for  good  luck!" 

"You  know  him?"  asked  Slanning. 

"At  home  I  dwell  a  neighbor  to  Lord  Caversham," 
Digby  answered.  "Yes,  I  know  Dick  Fowell,  and  if 
we  meet  in  the  fight,  by  this  hand !  he'll  have  good 
cause  to  know  me." 

As  he  spoke,  Digby  laughed,  and  when  he  left  the 


TO  ARMS  !  155 

room,  he  still  was  laughing.  But  in  his  laughter  there 
was  something  that  made  a  dry  place  come  in  Merry- 
lips'  throat  and  an  emptiness  at  the  pit  of  her 
stomach. 

Hastily  she  pulled  out  her  pistol,  and  she  went  and 
sat  by  the  fire,  and  rubbed  it  with  a  rag,  just  as  she  had 
seen  Rupert  clean  his  carabine.  But  while  she  seemed 
so  busy,  she  could  not  help  hearing  Captain  Brooke 
and  Cornet  Slanning,  who  were  left  alone  at  table,  speak 
together.  She  knew  that  it  was  of  her  that  they 
spoke. 

"'Twere  better,"  said  Slanning,  "that  Captain  Norris 
had  ventured  it,  after  all,  and  sent  the  little  rogue 
hence  a  week  agone." 

"Not  to  be  thought  on!"  Captain  Brooke  replied. 
"You  know  well  that  the  ways  were  straitly  laid. 
And  who'd  'a'  dreamed  the  assault  would  be  made  so 
soon ! " 

Merrylips  could  not  keep  from  glancing  up.  Then, 
when  they  saw  that  she  was  listening,  the  two  men 
instantly  laid  off  their  grave  looks,  and  began  to  chaff 
her. 

"What  dost  thou  think  to  do  with  that  murderous 
pistol,  eh,  Rittmeister  ? "  said  Slanning. 

Merrylips  ran  to  him,  and  leaning  against  his  shoul- 
der, said :  — 


156  MERRYLIPS 

"Good  Cornet  Slanning,  I  could  do  far  more,  an 
you  gave  me  a  carabine,  such  as  Rupert  Hinkel  hath, 
and  a  flask  of  powder,  and  a  touch-box,  and  a  pouch, 
and  a  piece  of  match  as  long  as  my  arm." 

" That's  a  gallant  lad!"  said  Captain  Brooke.  "I 
see  well,  Tibbott,  that  thou  art  not  afraid." 

"Body  a'  truth!"  cried  Merrylips,  and  stood  up 
very  straight.  "I'm  not  feared  of  the  scurvy  Round- 
heads, no,  not  I !  I  shall  fight  'em  to-morrow  —  the 
base  rogues  that  have  taken  my  brother  prisoner! 
Ay,  and  with  mine  own  hand  I  have  good  hope  to  kill 
some  among  'em!" 


V 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

That  night  Merrylips  slept  on  a  form  in  the  mess- 
room,  with,  Lieutenant  Crashaw's  cloak  wrapped  about 
her.  She  had  meant  to  sit  up  all  night,  to  be  ready 
when  the  attack  came.  Indeed,  she  had  lain  wide 
awake  till  midnight,  and  had  thought  to  herself  that 
she  was  glad  to  be  lying  in  the  lighted  room,  where  the 
officers  came  in  and  out,  rather  than  in  her  own  dark 
and  lonely  chamber. 

But  after  midnight  her  eyelids  grew  heavy,  and  she 
heard  the  challenge  of  the  sentries  and  the  hurrying 
of  feet  in  the  courtyard  fainter  and  farther  away. 
Then  she  slept,  and  dreamed  of  Walsover.  She  was 
telling  Flip  proudly  that  she  should  go  to  the  wars,  for 
all  she  was  but  a  wench,  when  she  woke,  with  a  sound 
of  firing  in  her  ears,  and  began  a  day  that  seemed  to 
her  in  after  days  to  be  itself  a  series  of  dreams. 

A  window  in  the  mess-room  stood  open,  and  through 
it  a  dank  wind  was  blowing.  The  sky  was  still  dark, 
but  the  stars  were  few.     On  the  hearth  the  logs  had 

157 


158  MERRYLIPS 

fallen  into  white  ash,  and  the  one  candle  on  the  table 
was  guttering  into  a  pool  of  melted  wax.  The  room  was 
empty,  and  awesomely  still,  but  off  in  the  darkness, 
where  the  dank  wind  blew,  strange  noises  could  be 
heard.  Footsteps  echoed  in  the  flagged  courts,  mus- 
kets cracked,  and  then,  like  a  tongue  of  flame,  the  clear 
call  of  a  trumpet  cleft  the  dark. 

Merrylips  ran  out  into  the  great  courtyard.  She 
was  cursed  at,  flung  aside,  jostled  by  men  who  were 
hurrying  to  their  posts.  And  the  trumpet  called,  and 
the  shots  cracked  faster  and  faster,  while  overhead  the 
stars  went  out  and  the  sky  grew  pale. 

In  the  wan  daylight  Merrylips  saw  the  banner  that 
floated  over  Monksfield.  It  was  red,  and  by  its  hue 
it  told  to  all  the  world  that  the  house  was  held  for  the 
king,  and  would  be  held  for  him  while  one  drop  of 
blood  ran  red  in  the  veins  of  his  followers. 

Against  the  stable  wall  sat  a  trooper  whom  Merry- 
lips knew.  He  was  trying  to  tie  a  bandage  about  his 
arm,  with  his  left  hand  and  his  teeth.  She  helped  him, 
fixing  the  bandage  neatly,  as  she  had  been  taught  by 
Lady  Sybil.  She  asked  him  about  the  fight,  in  a  steady 
little  voice  that  she  scarcely  knew  for  her  own. 
While  she  was  speaking,  she  heard  a  great  burst  of 
shouting  and  of  firing  on  the  west  side  of  the  house. 
The  wounded  man  leaped  to  his  feet.     He  caught  up 


THE   END   OF  THE   DAY  1 59 

his  carabine  in  his  sound  hand  and  made  off  across 
the  courtyard. 

"  God  and  our  right !"  he  shouted  as  he  ran. 

Merrylips  shouted  too.  She  snatched  her  pistol 
from  her  sash  and  ran,  as  the  trooper  had  run,  till  she 
found  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  western  rampart,  where 
one  twilight  she  had  tried  to  comfort  Rupert.  She 
found  Rupert  there  now.  His  face  was  smudged  with 
powder,  and  he  was  loading  guns  and  passing  them 
up  to  the  men  on  the  rampart  above  him.  They  were 
firing  fast,  all  but  one  or  two  who  lay  quiet. 

"Shall  I  aid  thee?"  Merrylips  asked. 

Rupert  nodded,  as  if  he  had  no  time  to  quarrel  now. 
So  she  knelt  at  his  side  and  helped  him  to  load  the  guns 
for  hours  and  hours,  as  it  seemed  to  her.  Right  over- 
head the  sun  came  out  from  the  gray  film  of  clouds. 
The  light  was  reflected  from  the  steel  helmets  and  the 
gleaming  back-pieces  of  the  troopers  on  the  ramparts. 

"Come!"  said  Rupert,  suddenly. 

Holding  fast  to  the  gun  that  he  had  just  loaded,  he 
scrambled  up  the  rampart,  and  Merrylips  scrambled 
after  him.  She  saw  that  the  fields  below,  which  had  been 
so  peaceful  on  that  twilight  when  she  last  had  looked 
upon  them,  were  all  alive  now  with  mounted  men. 
A  line  of  low  trees  that  she  remembered,  some  two 
hundred  feet  away,  was  now  a  line  of  gray  smoke, 


160  MERRYLIPS 

spangled  with  red  flashes  of  fire.  All  round  her  little 
clods  of  dirt  kept  spurting  up  so  that  she  was  sprinkled 
with  dust.  In  the  air,  every  now  and  then,  was  a  hum- 
ming, as  of  monstrous  bumblebees. 

She  did  not  know  what  had  happened,  in  the  moment 
of  darkness  and  outcry  through  which  she  had  passed. 
She  was  off  the  rampart.  She  was  sitting  on  the  porch 
of  the  great  house,  and  over  her  stood  a  big,  surly 
fellow,  a  trooper  who  had  been  least  among  her  friends. 

"And  if  I  catch  thee  again  within  range  of  the  firing," 
she  heard  him  say,  "for  the  sake  of  mine  own  bairn 
at  home,  I  swear  I'll  twist  thy  neck!" 

The  trooper  was  gone,  and  she  sat  staring  at  a  red 
stain  upon  her  sleeve.  It  was  blood,  and  yet  she  was 
not  hurt,  she  knew.  She  wondered  what  those  cries 
had  been  that  she  had  heard,  and  what  had  been  the 
weight  that  had  fallen  against  her. 

She  was  very  hungry.  She  was  ashamed  to  think  of 
such  a  thing,  but  she  had  not  eaten  since  the  night 
before.  She  stole  into  the  mess-room  and  from  the 
table  got  a  pocketful  of  bread. 

While  she  was  gnawing  at  it,  she  heard  a  louder 
noise  that  drowned  the  cracking  of  the  muskets.  At 
first  she  thought  that  it  was  a  sound  within  her  own 
ears,  but  when  she  had  run  out  into  the  courtyard,  she 
heard  the  men  about  her  saying :  — 


THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  l6l 

"'Tis  the  great  guns  from  Ryeborough!" 

Through  the  rattle  of  the  muskets  and  the  boom  of 
the  artillery,  a  sharp  cry  rang  through  the  courtyard: 
"Fire!"  Against  the  gray  sky  a  spurt  of  pale  flame 
could  be  seen  on  the  thatched  roof  of  one  of  the  great 
barns. 

Merrylips  ran  to  the  spot,  screaming  "Fire!"  too, 
with  all  her  might,  yet  she  could  not  hear  her  own  voice 
in  the  din.  All  the  men  who  were  not  on  the  firing 
line  —  horseboys  and  cooks  and  farriers  and  wounded 
troopers  —  flocked  to  the  barn.  They  scrambled  to 
the  roof.  They  tore  off  the  blazing  thatch  by  handfuls 
and  cast  it  into  the  court  below.  They  fetched  buckets 
of  water. 

Merrylips  worked  with  the  rest.  She  was  drenched 
to  the  skin  with  spilt  water.  She  burned  her  hands 
with  the  blazing  thatch.  She  was  hoarse  with  shouting 
and  half  choked  with  smoke. 

All  about  her,  on  the  sudden,  sounded  a  clatter  of 
hoofs.  She  felt  herself  caught  roughly  by  the  arm  and 
dragged  against  the  wall  of  the  barn.  Past  her  a  line 
of  horses,  that  plunged  and  struggled  as  they  sniffed 
the  fire,  were  heading  for  the  great  gate  of  Monks- 
field. 

"'Tis  a  sally  they  go  upon,  God  speed  'em!"  cried 
a  voice  beside  her. 


1 62  MERRYLIPS 

She  looked,  and  saw  that  it  was  Rupert  that  had 
spoken.  It  must  have  been  he  that  had  dragged  her 
back  from  the  hoofs  of  the  horses.  Still  holding  her 
arm,  he  led  her  across  the  court  and  down  the  flagged 
passage  to  the  buttery  hatch. 

"Give  us  to  drink !"  he  cried. 

The  man  at  the  hatch  gave  them  a  leathern  jack, 
half  full  of  water  that  was  dashed  with  spirits.  They 
drank  from  it,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  Merrylips  felt 
new  courage  rise  in  her. 

Through  the  flagged  passage  she  looked  out  at  the 
barn,  where  the  smoke  rose  murkily  against  the  sunset 
sky.  She  saw  that  with  every  puff  it  sank  lower.  She 
listened,  pausing  as  she  drank,  and  she  heard,  in  what 
seemed  blank  stillness,  only  the  feeble  crackling  of 
hand-arms. 

Rupert  took  the  words  from  her  lips. 

"They've  silenced  the  great  guns!"  he  cried.  "The 
day  is  ours,  young  Venner  !     Hurrah  !" 

Side  by  side  they  dashed  out  into  the  courtyard. 
They  found  it  full  of  men  who  shouted  and  cast  up  their 
caps.  The  day  was  theirs !  The  day  was  theirs ! 
they  cried  on  all  sides.  In  the  nick  of  time  Captain 
Brooke  had  led  a  charge  that  had  silenced  the  great 
guns  from  Ryeborough.  God  and  our  right !  Long  live 
the  king !     Long  live  his  loyal  garrison  of  Monksfield ! 


THE   END   OF  THE  DAY  1 63 

In  the  midst  of  the  shouting  and  the  rejoicing,  the 
sallying  party  came  riding  back,  with  the  captured 
guns.  Among  horses'  heels  and  dismounting  men 
Merrylips  went  shouting  with  the  loudest:  "Long  live 
the  king !  Down  wi'  the  Parliament !  Death  to  all 
rebels!"  till  she  found  herself  in  the  thickest  of  the 
crowd. 

A  young  man  stood  there,  staggering,  held  up  by  the 
grasp  that  one  of  the  troopers  had  laid  upon  his  shoul- 
der. His  helmet  was  off.  His  chestnut  hair  was 
clotted  with  blood,  and  there  was  a  long  smear  of  it 
upon  his  cheek.  He  wore  no  sword,  and  his  officer's 
sash  was  of  orange,  the  color  of  the  Parliament. 

Scarcely  had  Merrylips  grasped  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  rebel  officer  and  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  her  friends, 
when  Miles  Digby  came  smashing  his  way  through  the 
crowd.  He  was  coatless  and  powder-blackened,  and 
his  face  was  the  face  that  he  had  shown  on  the  day 
when  he  had  beaten  Rupert. 

— "So  'tis  thou,  Dick  Fowell?"  said  he,  with  such 
words  as  Merrylips  knew  not  the  meaning  of,  and  full 
and  fair  he  struck  the  rebel  officer  a  blow  in  the 
face. 

The  young  man  reeled  and  fell  heavily,  full  length, 
upon  the  cobbles  of  the  courtyard.  A  savage  shout 
broke  from  those  that  stood  near.     One  of  the  horse- 


1 64  MERRYLIPS 

boys  kicked  him  as  he  lay.  But  Merrylips  stood  with 
the  outcry  against  the  rebels  struck  dumb  upon  her 
lips.  For  this  rebel  Dick  Fowell  had  chestnut  hair, 
like  Munn,  and  if  any  one  had  struck  Munn  like  that, 
when  he  was  a  prisoner  —  Merrylips  caught  her 
breath. 

Suddenly  Miles  Digby's  eye  had  lighted  on  her.  He 
seized  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"Here,  you,  Tibbott  Venner!"  he  shouted  madly. 
"'Tis  time  you  were  blooded,  little  whelp!  Kick  this 
dog  —  d'ye  hear  me  ?  He  won't  strike  back.  They've 
got  your  brother  prisoner  amongst  'em.  Serve  him  as 
they'll  serve  your  brother !  Kick  the  fellow  —  or 
'twill  be  the  worse  for  you!" 

"I  will  not!"  screamed  Merrylips. 

She  saw  the  savage  faces  about  her,  the  savage  face 
of  Miles  Digby  bending  over  her,  and  at  her  feet  she 
saw  the  limp  figure  of  the  helpless  man  that  might  have 
been  Munn.  In  that  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
smelled  blood,  that  she  tasted  it,  bitter  upon  her  tongue, 
and  should  not  lose  the  taste  for  all  her  days.  Maddened 
with  fear,  she  struggled  in  Digby's  grasp. 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!"  she  screamed.  "You 
vile  coward!    A  pest  choke  you!    Let  me  go!" 

"Digby!"  a  stern  voice  shouted  above  the  uproar 
of  the  crowd. 


THE  END  OF  THE  DA\  1 65 

It  might  have  been  Captain  Norris  that  spoke,  or 
it  might  have  been  George  Brooke.  Merry  lips  never 
knew.  But  she  did  know  that  the  grasp  was  taken 
from  her  arm,  and  blindly  she  turned  and  ran  from  the 
spot. 


CHAPTER  XX 

LADY   SYBIL'S   GODDAUGHTER 

When  Merrylips  stopped  running,  she  found  herself 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  bare,  stone-paved  room 
that  took  up  the  ground-floor  of  the  wash-house. 
At  her  feet  was  a  heap  of  old  sacks,  and  she  burrowed 
in  among  them,  and  lay  gasping  for  breath. 

She  was  sure  that  Miles  Digby  would  follow  her. 
On  that  account  she  had  not  dared  run  to  her  own 
chamber.  For  she  was  afraid  of  Digby  now  —  yes,  and 
afraid  of  all  the  men  in  Monksfield  that  had  been  her 
friends. 

As  she  lay  in  the  darkness  that  deepened  in  the 
wash-house,  she  saw  the  faces  of  Lieutenant  Crashaw 
and  her  own  brother  Munn,  as  they  looked  on  indiffer- 
ently, while  they  wasted  the  corn  of  the  poor  folk  at 
Storringham.  She  saw  the  face  of  Lieutenant  Digby, 
as  he  struck  Dick  Fowell  down.  Such  deeds  were  a 
part  of  war,  which  she  had  thought  was  all  brave  riding 
and  feats  of  honor  and  bloodless  victory. 

She  pressed  her  face  between  her  arms,  and  as  she 
did  so,  felt  against  her  cheek  the  blood  that  had  Stif- 
166 


LADY   SYBIL'S   GODDAUGHTER  1 67 

fened  on  her  sleeve.  At  the  feel  of  it  she  cried 
aloud. 

Oh,  she  was  sick  and  frightened  of  it  all !  She  was 
ashamed  of  the  boy's  dress  that  she  wore,  of  Digby's 
oaths  that  had  been  on  her  tongue,  of  the  draught 
that  she  had  drunk  at  the  buttery  hatch,  of  the  loud 
threats  that  she  had  spoken  against  the  rebels.  She 
was  not  the  lad,  Tibbott  Venner,  and  she  knew  it  now. 
She  was  Lady  Sybil's  little  goddaughter.  She  wanted 
to  be  again  where  she  could  wear  her  own  girlish  dress, 
where  she  would  hear  only  gentle  voices,  where  such 
things  as  she  had  seen  this  day  could  never  be  done. 

"But  I  did  not  kick  him  after  he  had  fallen,"  she 
kept  repeating.  "I  remembered  not  to  strike  one 
that  was  weaker  than  myself." 

She  found  her  only  comfort  in  thinking  that  in  this, 
at  least,  she  had  done  as  Lady  Sybil  would  have  wished 
her  to  do.  For  in  that  hour  she  felt  so  soiled  in  body 
and  in  soul  that  she  feared  that  she  never  again  could 
be  Lady  Sybil's  little  girl. 

It  was  pitchy  dark  in  the  wash-house  when  Merry- 
lips  heard  steps  just  outside  and  the  clatter  of  the  door 
flung  open.  She  burrowed  deeper  among  the  sacks 
and  held  her  breath.  In  the  stillness  she  heard  rough 
voices  spe°k:  — 

"In  with  you,  you  cursed  rebel !" 


1 68  MERRYLIPS 

"Stand  on  your  feet,  you  dog!" 

Then  she  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  dead  weight  let  fall 
upon  the  floor,  the  bang  of  a  door  shut  to,  the  rattle  of 
a  bolt  in  its  socket.  Softly  she  drew  breath  again,  and 
as  she  did  so,  she  heard  in  the  darkness  a  stifled  moan. 

All  at  once  she  realized  what  had  happened.  A 
wounded  rebel,  a  dying  man,  it  might  be,  had  been  im- 
prisoned in  the  very  place  where  she  was  hidden.  In 
terror  she  flung  aside  the  sacks  that  covered  her.  No 
matter  if  she  was  afraid  of  Digby !  She  was  more  afraid 
to  stay  here  with  this  Roundhead.  She  would  run  to 
the  door  and  shout  to  them  to  open  and  let  her  out. 

But  as  Merrylips  rose  softly  to  her  feet,  a  pale  light 
flickered  through  the  wash-house.  It  came  from  the 
narrow  window,  high  in  the  eastern  wall,  that  looked 
into  the  great  court,  where,  no  doubt,  torches  had  been 
newly  kindled.  The  light  fell  upon  a  man  who  was 
sitting  on  the  stone  floor,  not  ten  feet  from  her  corner, 
with  his  arm  cast  across  his  knee  and  his  head  bowed 
heavily  upon  his  arm.  His  hair  was  chestnut-colored, 
ruddy  in  the  light,  like  Munn's,  and  by  that  token 
Merrylips  knew  him  for  Dick  Fowell. 

For  many  moments  she  stood,  without  daring  to 
move,  while  she  wondered  what  she  should  do.  For 
if  she  called  at  the  door,  as  she  had  planned  to  do, 
perhaps  Digby  would  come.     If  he  came,  perhaps  he 


LADY   SYBIL'S  GODDAUGHTER  1 69 

would  stride  Fowell  again.  Perhaps  he  would  try 
to  make  her  strike  him.  No,  no,  she  could  not  call 
now,  but  surely  she  could  not  stay  a  prisoner  for  hours 
with  this  Roundhead ! 

While  she  was  thus  thinking,  Dick  Fowell  groaned 
again.  He  would  be  ashamed,  no  doubt,  when  he  found 
that  he  had  let  a  child  see  that  he  was  in  pain.  Some- 
how it  seemed  to  Merrylips  not  quite  honorable  to  be 
there  without  his  knowing  it. 

Hesitatingly  she  went  toward  him,  but  it  was  not  until 
she  stood  right  over  him  that  Fowell  looked  up. 
She  saw  his  face,  all  drawn  and  ghastly  under  the  sweat 
and  blood  that  were  dried  upon  it,  and  his  haggard  eyes 
that  looked  upon  her,  yet  did  not  seem  to  see  her.  In 
that  moment  she  forgot  that  he  was  a  Roundhead, 
such  as  she  had  hoped  to  slay.  She  saw  only  that  he 
was  hurt  and  suffering,  and  down  she  went  on  her 
knees  beside  him. 

"Doth  thy  poor  head  hurt?"  she  whispered,  in  her 
tenderest  girl- voice. 

With  her  two  arms  about  him  —  and  a  heavy  weight 
he  was !  —  she  eased  him  down  till  he  rested  on  the 
floor.  She  dragged  the  old  sacks  from  the  corner  and 
pillowed  his  injured  head  upon  them.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  he  seemed  so  far  conscious  of  her  presence 
that  he  stifled  his  groans  right  manfully. 


I^O  MERRYLIPS 

But  presently,  while  she  knelt  beside  him,  he  whis- 
pered, as  if  the  words  were  forced  from  him :  — 

"Water!     Give  me  to  drink!" 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  face.  She  could  feel 
how  cracked  and  dry  were  his  lips. 

"I'll  fetch  it  to  thee,"  she  promised,  saying  "thou" 
to  this  tall  Dick  Fowell  as  if  he  were  her  brother  or 
a  little  child. 

In  the  wash-house  was  an  old  bucking-tub  on  which 
she  could  stand.  And  in  the  western  wall  was  a  win- 
dow that  looked  upon  the  little  paved  court,  where  only 
yesterday  she  had  been  playing  ball.  The  window 
was  too  narrow  for  Dick  Fowell  to  have  escaped  that 
way,  and  so  his  jailers  knew,  but  little  slender  Merry- 
lips  had  no  trouble  in  scrambling  through  it. 

From  the  little  court  she  stole  to  the  buttery  hatch, 
where  all  night  long  strong  waters  were  served  out  to 
the  weary  and  wounded  soldiers.  As  she  went,  she 
kept  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings,  for  she  was 
sick  with  the  dread  of  meeting  Miles  Digby.  But 
she  found  no  one  to  hinder  her.  Except  for  the  sen- 
tries, who  kept  watch  upon  the  walls,  the  Monks- 
field  garrison  were  resting  on  their  arms  against  the 
morning. 

From  the  man  at  the  buttery  hatch  Merrylips  got 
a  flasket  full  of  wine  and  water. 


LADY  SYBIL'S  GODDAUGHTER  171 

"For  the  lieutenant,"  she  answered  when  she  was 
questioned. 

She  guessed  that  such  was  Dick  Fowell's  rank,  and 
she  hoped  that  it  was  no  lie  she  told,  even  though  the 
man  should  believe  that  it  was  for  Lieutenant  Crashaw 
or  Lieutenant  Digby  that  she  had  been  sent  to  fetch 
the  wine  and  water. 

From  the  same  man  she  begged  a  great  leathern 
bottle,  and  this  she  filled  with  water  at  the  well  in  the 
middle  of  the  courtyard.  As  she  drew  the  water,  she 
looked  about  her.  Above  her  head  the  stars  were 
shining  cold,  and  far  away,  across  the  walls,  upon  the 
hills  that  lay  to  eastward,  she  could  see  the  ruddy  fires 
where  the  rebels  lay  encamped. 

With  the  bottle  and  the  flasket  Merrylips  hurried 
back  to  the  little  paved  court.  She  sought  out  the  form 
that  she  had  left  yesterday  by  the  wall  of  the  herb 
garden.  She  pushed  it  beneath  the  window  of  the 
wash-house,  and  climbing  upon  it,  soon  had  scrambled 
back  into  Dick  Fowell's  prison. 

She  held  the  flasket  to  his  lips,  and  he  drank,  with 
long  breaths  of  content.  Then,  in  a  dark  corner,  she 
stripped  off  her  shirt  and  replaced  her  doublet  and  her 
leathern  coat  upon  her  bared  shoulders.  With  a  rag 
torn  from  the  shirt  she  washed  the  dust  and  blood  from 
Dick  Fowell's  face,  and  cleansed  the  wound  on  his 


172  MERRYLIPS 

head,  as  well  as  she  was  able.  Then  she  bandaged 
the  hurt  place  with  strips  of  the  shirt  and  she  gave  him 
again  to  drink  from  the  flasket.  After  that  she  could 
do  nothing  but  sit  by  him  upon  the  paved  floor,  and 
when  he  muttered,  half  delirious,  as  once  or  twice  he 
did,  try  to  quiet  him,  with  her  hand  against  his 
cheek. 

The  light  flickered  and  faded  in  the  wash-house,  as 
the  torches  in  the  courtyard  died  down.  Once,  in  the 
west,  a  burst  of  firing  rattled  out,  and  sank  again  to 
deeper  silence.  Through  the  western  window  came 
the  chill  light  of  the  setting  moon.  Merrylips  had 
dozed  for  a  moment,  perhaps,  but  she  roused  at  the 
sound  of  a  bolt  withdrawn.  She  looked  up,  and  in 
the  open  doorway  she  saw  Miles  Digby  stand. 

Yet  she  was  not  afraid.  She  kept  her  place,  on  her 
knees,  at  FowelFs  side,  with  her  hand  upon  his  hand, 
and  "Hush!"  she  said  to  him,  for  he  had  stirred  un- 
easily, as  if  he,  too,  had  caught  the  sound  of  Digby's 
coming.    Across  his  helpless  body  she  looked  at  Digby 

"He  is  hurt.     Thou  must  not  waken  him,"  she  said. 

Digby,  with  the  reek  of  battle  half  cleared  from  his 
brain,  looked  upon  her  in  the  moonlight.  In  that 
moment  perhaps  he  saw,  kneeling  by  the  wounded  man, 
something  greater  in  strength  than  the  boy  Tibbott,  with 
whom  he  had  jested  and  played,  something  greater  in 


"  He  is  hurt.    Thou  must  not  waken  him,"  she  said. 


LADY  SYBIL'S  GODDAUGHTER  1 73 

compassion  even  than  the  maid,  Sybil  Venner,  that  little 
Merrylips  should  one  day  be. 

In  any  case,  he  came  no  farther  into  the  room. 
Perhaps  he  dared  not  face  what  faced  him  there  in  the 
form  of  a  little  child.  For  an  instant  he  stood  with 
his  hand  upon  the  latch,  and  then  he  went  forth  again, 
and  slammed  and  bolted  the  door  behind  him. 

"  What  was't?"  Dick  Fowell  whispered,  and  suddenly 
he  tightened  his  grasp  on  Merrylips'  hand. 

"I  dreamed,"  he  whispered.  "I  dreamed  —  Miles 
Digby  was  come  —  to  settle  the  old  score." 

"Think  not  of  him,"  soothed  Merrylips.  "For  he 
will  not  harm  thee,  Dick.  I  will  not  suffer  him  to  do 
thee  harm." 


CHAPTER   XXI 

WHEN  THE  CAPTAIN  CALLED 

It  was  broad  daylight,  and  once  more  the  fire  of 
muskets  was  sputtering  along  the  walls  of  Monksfield, 
when  at  last  Dick  Fowell  opened  his  eyes.  He  looked 
at  Merrylips,  and  smiled,  and  when  he  smiled,  his  face 
grew  boyish  and  winning. 

"So!"  said  he.  "Thou,  at  least,  wert  real,  and  not 
a  phantom  in  those  black  dreams  where  I  was  laboring. 
Thou  hast  been  at  my  side  the  livelong  night?" 

Merrylips  nodded.  She  gave  him  the  flasket,  which 
still  held  a  little  of  the  wine  and  water,  and  the  bread 
which  was  in  her  pocket,  and  she  sat  by  him,  while 
he  propped  himself  on  his  elbow  and  ate  and  drank. 

"I  saw  thee  yesterday,"  said  Fowell,  presently. 

"In  the  courtyard,"  answered  Merrylips,  in  a  low 
voice.  "When  Miles  Digby  —  he  tried  to  make  me, 
but  I  didn't!    I  didn't!" 

"I  remember,"  said  Fowell,  and  his  eyes  narrowed 
at  the  memory.  "Child,  what  brought  thee,  bred  among 
such  as  Digby,  to  succor  me  last  night?" 

»74 


WHEN  THE  CAPTAIN  CALLED  1 75 

Merrylips  swallowed  a  lump  in  her  throat  before 
she  could  answer.  Now  that  she  heard  Fowell  speak 
in  that  firm  voice,  she  no  longer  felt  that  she  was 
protecting  him.  Instead  she  felt  little  and  weary,  and 
herself  in  sore  need  of  his  protection. 

"It  was  —  because  of  my  brother,"  she  whispered 
at  last.  "They  made  him  prisoner,  there  at  Loxford. 
I  hope  —  perchance  —  some  one  had  pity  on  him." 

She  was  angry  that  it  should  be  so,  but  as  she  thought 
of  Munn,  helpless  and  ill-treated,  perhaps,  as  Fowell 
had  been,  she  felt  the  tears  gather  upon  her  lashes. 

At  that  Fowell  sat  up  quickly,  though  he  made  a  wry 
face  at  the  effort  that  it  cost  him.  He  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  spoke  as  gently  as  one  of  her  own 
Cavalier  friends  could  have  spoken. 

"Cheerly,  my  lad  !  Tell  me  the  name  of  this  brother 
of  thine,  and  when  I  come  clear  of  Monksfield,  I  prom- 
ise thee  I'll  do  my  best  endeavor  to  seek  him  out  and 
requite  him  for  thy  tenderness." 

She  whispered  the  name,  "Munn  Venner,"  and  she 
felt  the  start  of  surprise  that  Fowell  gave. 

"Venner?"  said  he.  "Sure,  thou  art  never  one  of 
the  Venners  of  Walsover?  Then  by  all  that's  mar- 
vellous I  knew  thine  eldest  brother,  Tom  Venner,  two 
years  agone  at  New  College.  A  proper  merry  lad  he 
was !     And  thou  art  a  brother  of  Tom's  !     Thou  must 


1 76  MERRYLIPS 

be  the  little  one  he  called  Flip,  though  I  had  judged  him 
to  be  older." 

Merrylips  answered  neither  yes  nor  no.  She  hoped 
it  was  no  fib  to  let  Dick  Fowell  think  that  she  was  her 
brother  Flip,  and  not  a  little  girl.  Whatever  happened, 
she  must  keep  the  secret  that  Munn  had  bidden  her  to 
keep.  But  she  thought  it  no  harm,  in  answer  to  FowelFs 
questions,  to  tell  him  how  she  had  dwelt  in  Will  Lowry's 
household  at  Larkland  and  had  come  to  Monksfield 
by  Munn's  aid.  Indeed  she  was  glad  to  talk  with 
Fowell.  He  seemed  like  an  old  friend,  since  he  had 
known  her  brother  Longkin  at  Oxford. 

But  soon  Dick  Fowell  said:  "I'm  loath  to  part  with 
thee,  little  truepenny,  but  haply  thy  gentle  friends  in 
garrison  will  not  be  over-pleased  at  the  company  thou 
art  keeping  here.  Were  it  not  best  thou  shouldst  slip 
hence  and  leave  me?" 

Merrylips  hesitated,  and  then  he  added,  smiling :  — 

"Have  no  fear,  child!  Lieutenant  Digby  and  I 
will  do  each  other  no  mortal  damage." 

Merrylips  feared  that  her  next  question  was  uncivil, 
but  she  had  to  put  it.     Point-blank  she  asked :  — 

"Why  doth  Lieutenant  Digby  hate  you  so?" 

"A  long  tale,"  said  Fowell,  and  frowned,  thcugh 
perhaps  it  was  only  with  the  pain  of  his  hurt  head. 

"We  Fowells,"   he  went  on,   "dwell  neighbors  to 


WHEN  THE  CAPTAIN  CALLED  1 77 

the  Digbys  yonder  in  Berkshire,  and  since  my  grand- 
father's time,  faith,  there  hath  been  little  love  lost  be- 
tween us.  There  was  at  first  a  dispute  over  some  lands, 
and  then  a  plenty  of  wrongs  and  insults,  —  on  both 
sides,  no  doubt.  As  little  lads,  Miles  Digby  and  I 
came  more  than  once  to  fisticuffs.  And  then,  two  years 
agone,  he  shot  my  dog  that  ran  at  my  heels,  vowing 
that  I  did  trespass  on  his  father's  lands.  For  that  I 
gave  him  such  a  trouncing  as  it  seemeth  he  hath  not 
forgot." 

The  arm  that  Fowell  had  laid  about  Merrylips 
tightened  in  a  grip  that  almost  hurt  her. 

"I  do  forgive  him  what  happened  yesterday,"  Fowell 
said,  as  if  he  found  it  hard  to  say.  "But  I  hope  the 
Lord  in  His  goodness  may  let  me  meet  him  once  again 
when  I  wear  a  sword !" 

Scarcely  had  Fowell  uttered  this  pious  wish,  when 
there  came  a  clattering  of  the  bolt  in  the  door  of  the 
wash-house. 

"'Tis  Digby!"  cried  Merrylips,  and  felt  herself 
half  choked  with  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

But  it  was  not  the  lieutenant,  whom  she  feared  for 
Dick  Fowell' s  sake.  It  was  a  corporal  and  a  couple 
of  troopers  who  had  come  to  fetch  the  prisoner  to  Cap- 
tain Norris.  They  were  in  great  haste.  They  seemed 
scarcely  to  notice  or  to  care  that  she  was  in  the  wash- 


178  MERRYLIPS 

house.  But  for  all  their  haste,  she  saw  that  they  were 
sullenly  civil  toward  Lieutenant  Fowell,  and  they  even 
helped  him  to  walk  away.  He  needed  help,  for  in 
spite  of  all  that  he  could  do,  he  staggered  as  soon  as 
he  stood  upon  his  feet. 

When  Dick  Fowell  had  been  led  away,  Merrylips 
went  slowly  out  into  the  courtyard.  She  felt  faint  and 
cold,  and  she  was  almost  trembling  at  the  thought 
that  her  old  friends  all  would  scorn  and  hate  her,  be- 
cause she  had  helped  a  Roundhead.  But  she  found 
the  garrison  too  tired  with  the  hours  of  fighting  that 
were  past,  and  too  busy  with  making  ready  for  the  fight 
that  was  to  come,  to  pay  much  attention  to  one  small 
lad  or  wonder  where  he  had  spent  the  hours  of  the  night. 

Ever  since  daybreak,  she  learned,  there  had  been 
hard  fighting,  and  many  men  had  been  killed  and 
wounded.  Cornet  Slanning  had  been  shot  through 
the  leg,  and  Lieutenant  Crashaw,  who  had  led  out  a 
sallying  party,  had  been  cut  off  from  the  garrison  and 
made  prisoner. 

It  was  because  of  this  that  Captain  Norris  had  sent 
for  Dick  Fowell,  and  the  guards  were  treating  him 
civilly.  Colonel  Hatcher  was  offering  to  exchange 
Lieutenant  Crashaw  for  his  brother-in-law,  Dick  Fowell, 
and  so  sorely  did  the  Monksfield  garrison  need  officers 
that  Captain  Norris  had  agreed  to  the  exchange. 


WHEN  THE  CAPTAIN   CALLED  1 79 

So  white  flags  had  been  hung  out  on  either  side,  and 
the  firing  stopped.  Presently,  about  noontime,  Dick 
Fowell  was  put  on  a  horse  and  taken  outside  the  gates 
of  Monksfield,  where  he  should  be  handed  over  to  his 
own  men.  Merrylips'  eyes  met  his,  as  he  was  riding 
forth.  He  did  not  speak,  or  even  smile  upon  her, 
but  she  guessed  that  he  did  this  out  of  caution,  lest  any 
show  of  friendliness  from  him,  a  Roundhead,  should 
do  her  harm  among  the  Cavaliers. 

Half  an  hour  later  Eustace  Crashaw  was  once  more 
within  the  walls  of  Monksfield.  He  was  very  grave 
of  face,  and  he  stammered  more  than  ever  as  he  told 
Captain  Norris  the  number  of  men  and  the  store  of 
ammunition  that  the  rebels  had  with  them.  Colonel 
Hatcher  had  shown  all  to  him,  in  bravado,  and  bidden 
him  tell  his  captain  that,  thus  furnished,  they  meant 
to  sit  there  till  they  had  reduced  the  garrison. 

When  Captain  Norris  heard  this,  he  bit  his  mus- 
taches. He  looked  so  stern  that  Merrylips,  who  had 
stolen  near,  hoped  with  all  her  heart  that  he  would 
never  learn  how  she  had  helped  the  brother-in-law  of 
this  boastful   Colonel  Hatcher. 

Soon  the  guns  were  cracking  again,  all  along  the 
walls,  but  to-day  Merrylips  had  no  wish  to  go  upon 
the  ramparts  and  see  men  hurt  and  slain.  She  was 
turning  away  to  the  great  house,  when  whom  should 


l8o  MERRYLIPS 

she  meet  but  Rupert.  She  was  glad  to  see  him,  for 
she  remembered  how  friendly  they  had  been,  only  the 
day  before.  She  halted,  and  would  have  spoken,  but 
she  saw  that  he  was  scowling  upon  her  in  his  old  way. 

"How  is  it  with  thee,  little  sister?"  he  jeered. 

Merrylips  thought  that  now  surely  he  had  hit  upon 
her  secret.  She  was  so  frightened  that  she  could  only 
stare  at  him  without  speaking. 

"I  thought  thou  hadst  mettle  in  thee,  for  a  young 
one,"  Rupert  went  on.  "But  to  go  sneaking  away 
and  coddle  a  vile  rebel,  only  for  that  he  had  come  by 
a  bump  in  the  head,  as  he  well  had  merited !  Tibbott 
Venner,  thou  art  no  better  than  a  girl!" 

In  her  relief  that  she  was  not  yet  found  out,  Merry- 
lips  did  not  care  what  she  said. 

"Then  is  a  girl  a  better  gentleman  than  thou,  thou 
horseboy!"  she  answered  back.  "And  I  be  glad  that 
I  am  like  a  girl!" 

So  saying,  she  trudged  away  to  her  own  chamber. 
There  she  put  on  a  fresh  shirt,  and  then  she  fumbled 
in  the  hole  in  her  mattress  and  drew  out  the  silver  ring 
that  had  been  Lady  Sybil's.  She  hung  it  about  her 
neck  on  a  cord,  within  her  shirt,  just  as  she  had  used  to 
wear  it.  It  was  like  a  girl  to  wear  it  so,  and  she  wanted 
to  remember  always  that  she  was  indeed  a  girl. 

While  she  sat  fingering  the  ring,  she  felt  that  she  did 


WHEN  THE  CAPTAIN   CALLED  l8l 

not  care  what  Rupert  or  the  Monksneld  garrison  thought 
of  her.  She  knew  that  she  had  done  what  Lady  Sybil 
would  have  wished  a  tender-hearted  little  maid  to  do 
But  as  the  afternoon  passed,  and  the  room  grew  dark, 
and  the  rebel  watchfires  kindled  on  the  hills,  she  began 
to  think  how  far  away  was  Lady  Sybil,  and  how  near 
were  the  Monksneld  garrison.  And  since  Rupert  knew 
that  she  had  helped  their  captive  enemy,  all  the  garrison 
must  know,  and  surely  all  would  cease  to  be  her  friends. 

As  she  was  thinking  thus,  and  remembering  the  stern 
face  that  Captain  Norris  had  worn,  she  heard  a  knock 
upon  her  door.  When  she  called,  "Come !"  there  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold  a  slender  figure  that  she  knew 
could  be  only  Rupert's. 

He  spoke  in  a  formal,  dry  voice. 

"I  am  sent  to  find  you,  Master  Venner.  Captain 
Norris  hath  a  word  to  say  unto  you." 

Within  her  shirt  Merrylips  clutched  at  the  silver 
ring  and  tried  to  take  courage. 

"The  captain  —  is  fain  to  speak  with  me?"  she 
faltered. 

"Ay,"  said  Rupert.  "Now  —  this  moment.  Come ! 
He  waiteth  for  you," 


CHAPTER   XXII 

A  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 

In  the  mess-room.,  where  the  candles  were  lighted, 
Captain  Tibbott  Norris  sat  alone  at  the  table.  Before 
him  were  a  dish  of  stewed  meat  and  a  cup  of  wine, 
and  he  ate  and  drank  steadily,  but  all  the  time  his  eyes 
were  bent  upon  a  map  that  was  spread  open  at  his 
elbow.  He  had  not  shaved  in  two  days,  and  his  un- 
kempt face  looked  old  and  tired. 

For  a  full  minute  Merrylips  must  have  hesitated  on 
the  threshold  before  Captain  Norris  noticed  that  she 
was  there.  Then  he  peered  at  her  through  the  candle- 
light, and  said  he :  — 

"Thou,  is  it,  Tibbott?  And  young  Hinkel,  too? 
Come  you  in,  both  lads,  and  shut  to  the  door." 

At  heart  Merrylips  was  glad  that  Rupert  was  to  stay 
in  the  room.  She  was  almost  afraid  to  be  left  alone 
with  the  stern  captain.  But  when  he  spoke  again, 
she  went  to  him  obediently,  and  halted  at  his  side.  He 
turned  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  just  as  he 
had  done  on  the  day  when  she  first  had  entered  the 

182 


A  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS  1 83 

mess-room.  And  suddenly,  as  she  met  the  look  in 
his  tired  eyes,  she  no  longer  feared  him. 

But  when  Captain  Norris  spoke,  it  was  to  Rupert, 
not  to  Merrylips,  that  he  said  the  words. 

"Young  Hinkel,"  he  began,  "I've  marked  you  for 
long  as  a  brisk  lad,  of  riper  wit  than  many  of  like  years. 
So  to-night,  when  I  cannot  spare  one  man  from  the 
garrison,  I  shall  trust  you,  a  lad,  with  a  man's  work." 

Rupert's  eyes  shone.  He  drew  himself  up  as  tall 
as  he  could,  and  stood  at  salute,  while  he  listened  to 
the  captain. 

"This  child,"  said  Captain  Norris,  and  drew  Merry- 
lips  to  stand  against  his  knee,  "must  leave  Monksfield 
to-night.  But  to  send  him  as  a  non-combatant,  under 
a  white  flag,  to  Colonel  Hatcher,  would  mean  to  return 
him  to  the  Roundhead  kinsfolk  from  whom  his  brother 
snatched  him." 

"Prithee,  not  that!"  begged  Merrylips. 

She  would  have  said  more,  if  she  had  not  found 
comfort  in  the  captain's  next  words. 

"So  the  only  course  left,"  he  went  on,  "is  to  set  him 
outside  our  lines,  and  let  him  make  his  own  way  unto 
the  nearest  of  our  garrisons.  You,  Rupert  Hinkel, 
shall  go  with  him.  Take  him  unto  his  kindred,  and 
they  will  requite  you  well.  Fail  the  lad,  or  play  him 
false,  and  I  shall  seek  you  out  and  hang  you." 


184  MERRYLIPS 

This  last  the  captain  said  as  quietly  as  if  he  promised 
Rupert  a  box  on  the  ear,  or  a  ha'penny,  or  some  such 
trifle.  Yet  quiet  as  his  voice  was,  there  was  in  it 
something  that  made  Merrylips  shrink  and  Rupert 
stiffen. 

"I  will  not  fail  him,  sir,  on  the  faith  of  a  gentleman," 
Rupert  promised,  in  a  voice  almost  as  quiet  as  the  cap- 
tain's own. 

Then  Captain  Norris  made  Rupert  stand  by  him, 
on  the  side  opposite  Merrylips,  whom  he  still  held  fast, 
and  he  pointed  out  to  him  on  the  map  lines  that  were 
paths  and  little  specks  that  stood  for  villages.  Point 
by  point  he  taught  Rupert  the  way  to  the  nearest 
Cavalier  outpost  at  King's  Slynton,  fifteen  miles^dis^ 
tant,  and  he  gave  him  a  pass-word,  by  which  the  com- 
mander of  that  garrison  should  know  that  he  came 
indeed  from  Monksfield,  and  was  to  be  helped  upon  his 
journey. 

"He  will  find  means  to  send  you  both  to  Walsover," 
said  Captain  Norris.  "Your  troubles  all  are  at  an 
end  when  once  you  reach  King's  Slynton,  and  the  dis- 
tance thither  is  not  great." 

Then  he  laid  upon  the  table  a  handful  of  small  coins, 
shillings  and  sixpences  and  groats.  These  he  bade 
Rupert  hide  within  his  clothes. 

"Show   but   one   piece   at   a   time,"   he   cautioned. 


A   PARTING   OF  THE   WAYS  1 8$ 

"  'Twill  rouse  question  if  so  young  a  boy  seem  too  well 
stored  with  money." 

"And  shall  I  take  my  carabine,  sir,  for  our  defence?" 
asked  Rupert. 

He  was  fairly  a-quiver  with  eagerness,  and  his  face 
fell  when  the  captain  answered,  "No." 

But  Rupert  felt  better  when  the  captain  pointed  to 
the  form  by  the  fire  and  said  that  yonder  lay  what  they 
must  bear  upon  their  journey.  For  on  the  form  was 
not  only  a  packet  of  what  seemed  food,  and  a  flask, 
but  a  small  pistol,  with  a  steel  patron  full  of  cartridges 
and  a  touch-box,  all  complete. 

"You  have  your  orders,"  said  Captain  Norris. 
"Now  rest  you  here  till  you  are  sent  for,  and  eat  your 
suppers  too." 

He  rose  as  if  the  talk  were  at  an  end,  and  for  the  first 
time  spoke  to  Merrylips. 

"Thou  must  layoff  that  Cavalier  sash,  be  sure,"  he 
said.    "And  art  thou  warmly  clad  against  this  journey?" 

"Ay,  sir,"  Merrylips  answered. 

She  spoke  cheerily.  For  she  was  going  to  leave 
Monksfield,  that  in  the  last  hours  she  had  found  so 
hateful.     Almost  she  could  have  laughed  for  joy. 

"That's  a  brave  lad!"  said  Captain  Norris;  yet 
somehow  he  seemed  a  little  disappointed  that  she 
bore  it  so  bravely. 


1 86  MERRYLIPS 

"Well,  God  speed  thee,  Tibbott,  and  farewell!" 
he  added  after  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly,  with  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  bent  and  kissed  her. 

She  felt  the  roughness  of  his  untrimmed  beard  against 
her  cheek,  and  then,  in  that  same  minute,  he  was  gone 
from  the  mess-room. 

The  hours  that  followed  seemed  to  her  like  a  dream. 
She  laid  aside  her  sash,  as  the  captain  had  bidden, 
against  her  journey  through  the  enemy's  country. 
She  watched  Rupert  hide  away  the  coins,  one  by  one, 
within  the  lining  of  his  doublet  and  in  his  pockets. 
She  sat  at  the  table,  because  Rupert  did  so,  and  she 
ate  some  cold  beef  and  bread,  though  she  could  scarcely 
taste  the  food.  She  was  going  to  leave  Monksfield  — 
that  was  her  one  thought.  And  for  all  the  dangers 
that  she  might  meet  upon  the  road,  and  for  all  that  she 
must  travel  with  Rupert,  her  little  enemy,  she  was 
glad  to  be  gone. 

Only  one  thing  troubled  her.  How  were  she  and 
Rupert  to  pass  through  the  rebel  lines  that  were  drawn 
so  closely  now  round  Monksfield  ?  She  wanted  to  ask 
Rupert  that  question,  but  she  was  too  proud  to  be  the 
first  to  break  the  silence  that  was  between  them. 

So  she  sat  playing  with  the  wax  that  guttered  from 
the  candle  on  the  table,  and  blinking  at  the  light. 
Perhaps  for  a  minute  she  had  nodded,  with  her  bead 


A  PARTING  OF  THE   WAYS  1 87 

upon  her  breast,  when  she  felt  a  blast  of  cold  air  from 
the  open  door,  and  found  that  Captain  Brooke  was 
standing  at  her  elbow. 

"Briskly,  lads!"  he  bade. 

Already  Rupert  had  pocketed  the  pistol  and  the 
flask,  and  taken  up  the  packet  of  food.  With  scarcely 
a  moment  lost,  they  were  all  three  outside  the  mess- 
room,  in  the  flagged  passage,  and  just  then  a  shadow 
fell  across  their  path,  and  before  them  stood  Miles 
Digby. 

" Going  hence,  eh?"  he  said.  "Then  God  be  wi* 
ye,  Tibbott." 

Digby  held  out  his  hand,  and  for  the  life  of  her 
Merrylips  could  not  have  helped  doing  what  she  did. 
All  in  an  instant  she  seemed  to  see  the  face  that  he  had 
worn  when  he  struck  Fowell,  who  stood  wounded  and 
helpless  before  him.  She  put  her  two  hands  behind 
her  and  shrank  from  him. 

He  laughed,  but  his  laughter  was  half-hearted,  and 
he  swore  an  oath.  Then  she  heard  no  more  of  him, 
for  Captain  Brooke  was  heading  down  the  passage, 
as  if  he  had  no  time  to  waste,  and  she  ran  after  him. 

Through  corridors  that  she  knew  well  they  went, 
half  lighted  by  the  dark  lantern  that  the  captain  carried. 
They  crossed  the  echoing  space  of  the  great  store-room, 
and  through  a  narrow  door  stepped  out  beneath  the 


1 88  MERRYLIPS 

stars.  They  stood  in  the  herb  garden,  and  Merrylips 
had  guessed  where  they  were  going,  even  before  the 
captain  led  them  down  the  steps  to  the  door  beneath 
the  still-house. 

"Do  we  go  this  way,  even  as  you  came?"  she  said 
to  him. 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper,  lest  Rupert,  who  did  not 
share  the  secret,  might  overhear. 

"Ay,  by  the  same  path,"  said  Captain  Brooke. 
"'Tis  a  buried  passage  that  the  monks  must  have 
builded  in  old  days.  Keep  silent  touching  it,  you  two," 
he  added  gravely,  and  in  the  archway  of  the  door  turned 
the  light  full  upon  their  faces.  "To  set  you  beyond 
danger  we  trust  you  with  a  secret  that  might  be  the 
ruin  of  the  garrison." 

Then  Merrylips  knew  that  on  the  day  when  she  had 
seen  Captain  Brooke  come  from  the  still-house,  he  had 
been  out  by  the  passage  to  spy  upon  the  enemy.  She 
wondered  that  she  had  been  so  stupid  as  not  to  have 
guessed  as  much. 

Through  the  damp  cellar,  where  the  long,  slimy 
tracks  of  snails  gleamed  on  the  walls,  they  reached  the 
low  entrance  of  the  buried  passage.  The  walls  were 
all  of  stone  that  sweated  with  moisture,  and  the  roof 
was  so  low  that  Captain  Brooke  had  to  stoop  as  he 
went.     Underfoot  the  ground  was  uneven.     More  than 


A   PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS  1 89 

once  Merrylips  stumbled  as  she  hurried  to  keep  up  with 
the  captain's  strides.  Every  moment,  too,  she  found 
it  harder  to  draw  breath.  Not  only  was  she  panting 
with  the  haste  that  she  must  make,  but  the  air  seemed 
lifeless  in  the  passage,  and  in  the  dark  lantern  the 
candle  burned  blue  and  feeble. 

"Journey's  end,  boys!"  Captain  Brooke  spoke 
at  last,  as  it  seemed  to  her  from  a  great  distance. 

Over  his  shoulder  she  saw  a  patch  of  dark  sky, 
where  stars  were  twinkling.  Across  the  patch  ran  inky 
black  lines  that  were  leafless  stalks  of  bushes.  The 
fresh  air  of  the  upper  world  came  keen  and  sweet  to 
her  nostrils. 

"Below  you  lieth  the  mere,  upon  the  north  of  the 
rebel  lines.  Take  your  bearings  by  it,  Rupert,"  said 
the  captain.  "Steer  your  course  as  Captain  Norris 
bade,  and  so,  good  speed  unto  you  both!" 

For  a  moment  Rupert  and  Merrylips  stood  in  the 
low  opening,  which  was  screened  by  hazel  bushes 
and  a  bit  of  ivy-covered  stonework.  In  the  passage 
that  they  had  just  left  they  watched  the  light  of  the 
captain's  lantern  till  they  could  no  longer  see  it  in  the 
darkness. 

"So  we're  quit  of  Monksfield  !"  Merrylips  said  then, 
and  as  she  thought  of  her  last  hours  in  the  garrison,  she 
spoke  in  a  happy  voice. 


I90  MERRYLIPS 

"You're  rejoiced,  eh?"  Rupert  answered  harshly 
"Truth,  I'm  not !  The  best  friend  I  have  I  left  yonder, 
old  Claus !  And  I'll  not  be  near  him  now,  in  the  last 
fight." 

"Last  fight — "  echoed  Merrylips. 

"Dost  thou  not  understand,  little  fool?"  whispered 
Rupert.  "The  rebels  will  attack  to-morrow,  and 
we're  now  so  weak  that  it  well  may  be  —  Dost  thou 
not  see  ?  'Tis  to  save  thy  life  the  captain  sendeth  thee 
away,  and  for  that  thou  art  glad  to  leave  him,  Tibbott 
Venner,  thou  little  coward  !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

OUTSIDE  KING'S   SLYNTON 

All  that  night  Merrylips  and  Rupert  groped  then 
way  by  the  paths  that  Captain  Norris  had  bidden 
them  take.  At  dawn  they  found  a  hiding-place  at  the 
edge  of  a  beech  wood  on  a  low  hill,  and  there  they 
spent  the  day. 

Sometimes  they  slept,  and  sometimes  they  ate  and 
drank,  and  sometimes  from  their  hilltop  they  scanned 
the  country  round  them.  Near  at  hand,  in  the  open 
fields,  they  saw  hinds  that  went  about  their  work,  and 
in  the  distance  twice,  to  their  alarm,  they  saw  squads 
of  mounted  men  that  sped  along  an  unseen  road. 

"Will  those  be  Roundheads?"  Merrylips  asked. 

"What  an  if  they  be?"  jeered  Rupert.  "Thou  hast 
a  kindness  unto  all  rebels,  young  Venner.  Mayhap 
'tis  thy  dear  comrade,  Dick  Fowell,  and  be  hanged 
unto  him !" 

For,  as  if  they  had  not  troubles  enough,  these  two 
foolish  children  were  making  matters  worse  by  keeping 
up  their  quarrel.    Not  one  kind  word  did  they  exchange 

191 


192  MERRYLIPS 

from  the  moment  of  their  leaving  Monksfield.  Rupert 
looked  down  upon  his  companion  for  a  weakling  and 
a  coward.  And  Merrylips,  for  her  own  part,  vowed  that 
she  would  never  ask  help  or  kindness  of  him  —  no, 
not  if  she  died  for  it ! 

So  in  angry  silence  they  took  up  their  march  again 
when  night  came  down.  The  sky  was  overcast,  and 
the  path  was  hard  to  find.  Once  they  went  astray 
and  wandered  into  a  bog,  where  the  water  oozed  icily 
cold  into  their  shoes. 

"A  brave  guide  art  thou  !"  Merrylips  taunted  Rupert. 
"Thou  to  be  set  to  care  for  me,  forsooth!" 

"Hold  thy  peace!"  snapped  Rupert.  "I'll  have 
thee  safe  at  King's  Slynton  with  the  daybreak,  and  blithe 
I'll  be  then  to  wash  my  hands  of  thee,  thou  pestilent 
brat!" 

"Brat  thyself!"  retorted  Merrylips.  "Thou'rt  no 
more  than  a  lad.  And  if  thou  art  glad  to  be  rid  of  me, 
'tis  ten  times  as  glad  I  am  at  thought  of  quitting  thee 
and  coming  once  more  amongst  gentlemen." 

As  soon  as  Merrylips  had  spoken  those  last  words, 
she  knew  that  she  had  wounded  Rupert  cruelly.  But  she 
was  so  cold  and  footsore  and  wretched  that  she  was 
glad  to  have  made  him  suffer  in  his  turn.  Besides, 
she  had  meant  what  she  had  said,  it  would  indeed 
be  pleasant  to  set  foot  in  the  mess-room  at  King's 


OUTSIDE   KING'S   SLYNTON  1 93 

Slynton,  and  to  be  warmly  greeted  and  petted  by  the 
officers  there,  as  she  had  been  by  the  friends  that  she 
had  left  ungratefully  behind  her. 

Upheld  by  the  thought  of  this  welcome  that  awaited 
her,  Merrylips  dragged  herself  along  at  Rupert's 
heels  all  that  dreary  night.  As  worn-out  a  little  girl 
as  ever  masked  herself  in  boy's  clothes,  she  saw  the 
dawn  at  last  break  grayly  over  the  eastern  hills.  The 
bare  trees  stood  out  from  the  mist,  and  the  fields  changed 
color  from  leaden  hue  to  brown.  Over  the  next  hill, 
she  hoped,  would  be  King's  Slynton,  but  she  would  not 
speak  to  Rupert,  not  even  to  ask  that  question. 

Up  this  hill  they  were  toiling,  with  Rupert  in  the  lead. 
He  limped  a  little,  as  Merrylips  was  glad  to  notice. 
Then  what  should  they  see,  on  the  crest  of  the  hill 
above  them,  sharply  outlined  against  the  gray  sky, 
but  a  mounted  man?  When  they  looked  closer,  they 
saw  that  he  was  an  armed  man,  and  that  he  wore  across 
his  cuirass  the  orange  scarf  of  a  rebel  officer. 

At  that  sight  both  children  shrank  into  the  shadow 
of  the  thicket  under  which  ran  their  path.  But  Merry- 
lips thought  less  of  the  rebel  officer  than  of  the  taunts 
that  Rupert  would  surely  cast  at  her,  for  having  be- 
friended the  like  of  him.  She  tried  to  think  of  a  bitter 
answer  to  make  him,  and  she  stiffened  herself  for  an 
open  quarrel,  as  she  saw  him  turn  toward  her. 


194  MERRYLIPS 

But  Rupert's  face,  as  he  looked  at  her,  was  not  that 
of  a  quarrelsome  little  boy.  It  was  a  troubled,  older 
face,  such  as  she  had  not  seen  him  wear. 

"Hide  thou  here  in  the  bushes,  Tibbott,"  he  bade. 
"And  stay  thou  hidden,  whatever  happen,  till  I  come 
again." 

He  did  not  make  her  his  comrade  so  much  as  to  tell 
her  what  he  thought  or  feared  or  what  he  planned  to 
do.  But  he  chose  a  sheltered  spot  for  her,  deep  among 
elder  bushes  and  young  birches,  and  he  gave  her  the 
flask  and  what  was  left  of  the  food.  He  bade  her  eat 
and  drink  and  rest  her  there  in  safety.  Then  he 
tucked  his  pistol  into  his  belt  and  trudged  away  alone 
over  the  hill  to  King's  Slyntom_ 

There  in  the  thicket  Merrylips  sat  all  day,  and  it 
was  the  longest  day  that  ever  she  had  known.  At  first 
she  slept,  but  she  could  not  sleep  all  the  time.  Then 
she  watched  the  flights  of  rooks  that  winged  across  the 
sullen  sky.  She  watched  the  rabbits  that  scurried 
through  the  copse  below  her.  She  built  little  houses 
of  dead  leaves  and  twigs  and  pebbles.  All  sorts  of 
things  she  did,  not  to  think  of  what  might  have  hap- 
pened to  Rupert  and  be  afraid. 

It  was  almost  twilight  when  Rupert  came  back.  He 
dropped  down  beside  her  under  the  bushes,  and  drew 
a  long  breath  as  if  he  were  tired. 


OUTSIDE  KING'S   SLYNTON  I95 

"The  rebels  have  taken  King's  Slynton,"  he 
said. 

Merrylips  knew  then  that  she  had  known  that  this 
would  be  his  news.  So  she  did  not  cry  out  or  show 
fear.    All  she  did  was  to  ask  him,  "When?" 

"Yesterday,"  he  answered.  "They  beat  our  men 
out  of  the  village,  and  have  set  a  garrison  of  their  own 
ruffians  in  their  stead." 

But  there  Merrylips  broke  in  upon  him.  She  had 
been  peering  at  him  sharply,  and  now  she  cried :  — 

"Where's  thy  pistol,  Rupert?" 

It  was  not  so  dark  but  that  she  could  see  how  he 
reddened.  He  tried  to  speak  roughly  and  angrily,  but 
in  the  end  he  blurted  out  the  truth. 

"They  took  my  pistol  from  me,  there  in  the  village," 
he  said.  "I  had  to  venture  in  among  them  to  get 
news.  They  said  —  the  rebel  soldiers  said  —  that  I 
must  have  stolen  it,  at  the  time  the  town  was  taken. 
They  took  my  pistol  and  what  money  was  in  the  pockets 
of  my  doublet.  They  would  have  searched  me  further, 
but  one  of  their  officers  came  up  and  bade  them  let 
me  go.  And  then  he  set  me  to  clean  his  horse's  stall. 
I've  been  fetching  and  carrying  all  day  —  for  thy  rebel 
friends,  Tibbott  Venner." 

Rupert  spoke  the  jeer  half-heartedly,  and  Merrylips 
made  no  answer.    Both  were  too  tired  and  frightened 


196  MERRYLIPS 

to  quarrel.  For  some  time  they  sat  in  silence,  while 
the  chill  shadows  gathered  round  them.  Deep  in  the 
thicket  the  owls  began  to  hoot. 

"Is  there  aught  of  food  left  ? "  asked  Rupert,  suddenly. 
"I'm  nigh  famished." 

In  answer  Merrylips  laid  the  packet  on  the  ground 
between  them.  Rupert  opened  it,  and  looked  at  what 
lay  within  —  the  dry  end  of  a  loaf,  a  slice  of  beef, 
and  some  crumbs  of  cheese.  Then  he  looked  at 
Merrylips. 

"Hast  thou  not  eaten  all  this  day?''  he  asked.  "I 
bade  thee,  Tibbott." 

"I  waited — to  share  with  thee,"  Merrylips  answered, 
and  somehow  she  choked  upon  the  words. 

"Thou  art  a  little  fool,"  said  Rupert,  angrily. 

He  broke  the  bread  and  on  the  crumb  that  was 
least  hard  he  placed  the  meat  and  laid  it  on  her 
knee. 

"Eat  this  now!"  he  ordered. 

"Thou  hast  given  me  all  the  meat,"  she  answered. 
"And  we  must  share  alike." 

Then  Rupert  caught  her  with  his  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  and  laid  the  bread  in  her  hand. 

"Eat  it!"  he  said  roughly.  "Thou  must  have  the 
best.  I'm  older  and  stronger  than  thou  —  and  I  prom- 
ised I'd  care  for  thee  —  and  I  will  now,  indeed  I  will ! 


OUTSIDE   KING'S   SLYNTON  1 97 

Thou  needst  not  fear,  for  all  we  may  not  find  help  at 
King's  Slynton.     I'll  bring  thee  safe  unto  thy  friends, 
and  I  —  I'll  not  be  rough  with  thee  again.    Now  wilt 
thou  not  eat?    I  pray  thee,  Tibbott!" 
And  this  time  Merrylips  took  the  food  and  ate. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  DARKEST  DAY 

In  the  dull  light  of  the  dripping  morning  Rupert  and 
Merrylips  sat  up  and  looked  at  each  other.  The  packet 
that  had  held  their  food  gaped  emptily  at  their  feet, 
and  the  flask  lay  forlornly  on  its  side. 

"What  shall  we  do?  And  whither  shall  we  go  now, 
Rupert?"  Merrylips  asked. 

She  chafed  her  cold  little  hands  while  she  waited 
hopefully  for  his  reply. 

Rupert  had  his  answer  ready.  Indeed,  for  twenty- 
four  hours  he  had  thought  of  little  else. 

"We  cannot  well  go  back  to  Monksfield,"  he  said, 
"for  no  doubt  the  place  hath  fallen  by  now." 

Merrylips    nodded    gravely. 

"If  I  had  known!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
wish  now  I'd  shaken  hands  with  Lieutenant  Digby, 
since  he  was  fain  to  do  so." 

"Well,"  said  Rupert,  "we  can't  go  back,  so  we  must 
needs  go  forward.  And  since  King's  Slynton  is  no 
longer  a  Royalist  garrison,  we  must  make  our  way  to 

195 


THE   DARKEST   DAY  1 99 

the  nearest  place  that  is.  But  we  will  not  make  such 
long  marches  as  we  made  yesterday!"  he  added. 

Merrylips  was  glad  to  hear  those  last  words,  for  she 
was  lame  in  every  muscle.  But  she  did  not  say  that 
she  was  glad,  lest  Rupert  think  her  a  little  milksop  to 
be  so  quickly  tired.     Instead  she  asked :  — 

"Where  is  the  Royalist  garrison  to  which  we  shall 
go  now?    I  pray  thee,  tell  me!" 

No  doubt  Rupert  would  have  liked  to  seem  wise  in 
everything  to  this  younger  lad,  but  he  was  an  honest 
boy.  Though  he  hesitated,  he  presently  spoke  the 
truth. 

"That  I  do  not  rightly  know,"  he  said.  "These 
parts  are  strange  to  me,  and  Captain  Norris  was  so 
sure  that  we  should  find  shelter  at  King's  Slynton  that 
he  told  me  nothing  of  the  ways  beyond.  But  we  must 
go  westward,  I  know,  to  reach  the  king's  country." 

"Ay,"  said  Merrylips,  "for  Walsover  lieth  in  the 
west." 

"But  first  of  all,"  Rupert  went  on,  "for  this  I  learned 
yesterday  in  the  village,  we  must  cross  the  river  Slyne 
that  barreth  our  passage  into  the  west.  And  we 
cannot  cross  it  by  the  bridge  at  King's  Slynton,  now 
that  the  rebels  are  there,  so  we  must  go  northward 
to  a  village  called  Slynford,  where  there  is  a  fording 
place." 


200  MERRYLIPS 

"And  is  it  far?"  Merrylips  asked  as  she  rose  stiffly 
to  her  feet. 

"Not  far,  I  think,"  Rupert  cheered  her.  "Not 
above  two  league,  I  am  sure." 

Now  two  leagues  may  sound  a  very  little  distance, 
when  the  words  are  read  by  a  snug  fireside.  But  two 
leagues,  when  tramped  through  drizzling  wet  and  mire, 
on  tired  feet,  become  a  weary  long  journey,  as  Merry- 
lips  and  Rupert  found.  It  was  sunset,  if  there  had  been 
a  sun  to  set  upon  that  damp  and  gloomy  day,  when  they 
limped  at  last  down  the  sticky  road  into  Slynford. 

The  first  sound  that  greeted  them,  as  they  set  foot 
in  the  village  street,  was  a  dirty  little  boy's  shouting 
to  his  mate :  — 

"Haste  ye,  Herry  Dautry !  The  sojers  do  be  changing 
guard  at  the  ford.  Come  look  upon  'em  for  a  brave 
show!" 

Then  they  knew  that  they  had  come  too  late.  Here 
in  Slynford,  as  at  King's  Slynton,  was  an  outpost  of 
the  rebel  army  that  barred  the  passage  into  the  west. 

Perhaps  if  they  had  gone  straight  to  the  ford  and 
asked  to  be  let  cross,  they  might  have  got  leave,  for 
they  were  very  young  and  harmless-looking  travellers. 
But  Rupert  and  Merrylips  were  both  too  tired  and 
hungry  and  discouraged  to  pluck  up  heart  for  such  a 
bold  undertaking. 


THE  DARKEST   DAY  201 

Moreover,  after  his  sad  experience  in  King's  Slyn- 
ton,  Rupert  was  shy  of  getting  within  arm's  reach  of 
rebel  soldiers.  He  might  be  robbed  of  what  money 
was  left  him,  he  told  Merrylips.  So  they  agreed  that 
they  should  do  well  to  leave  Slynford  and  try  to  cross 
the  river  farther  north. 

There  followed  for  the  two  children  a  week  of  wander- 
ing that  would  not  have  been  easy  even  for  grown 
men.  All  the  time  they  were  in  terror,  —  more  than 
they  need  have  been,  perhaps,  —  lest  they  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  cruel  rebels.  Indeed,  the  country 
through  which  they  passed  was  swarming  with  soldiers 
and  with  camp  followers  of  the  Parliament.  And 
Rupert  and  Merrylips  were  sure,  and  rather  proud  of 
the  fact,  that  in  dress  and  bearing  they  themselves 
looked  so  much  like  Cavaliers  that  they  should  instantly 
be  known  for  such,  if  they  let  themselves  be  seen  by 
their  enemies. 

So  they  kept  away  from  towns  and  villages,  where 
they  were  likely  to  be  stopped  and  questioned.  For 
greater  safety  they  travelled  by  night,  and  their  food  — 
coarse  bread,  and  meat,  and  fresh  cheese — they  bought 
at  lonely  cottages.  They  slept  in  woods  and  thickets, 
where  sometimes  they  found  nuts  and  haws  with  which  to 
piece  out  their  meals.  They  dared  not  even  ask  too 
many  questions  about  the  roads  that  they  should  take, 


202  MERRYLIPS 

and  so  it  happened  often  that  they  went  astray. 
Still,  they  travelled  northward,  in  the  main,  along  the 
river  Slyne,  till  one  morning  they  met  with  a  rebel 
patrol. 

The  soldiers  shouted  to  them  to  stand.  They  were 
half  in  jest,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  no  jest  to  Rupert  and 
Merrylips.  In  great  fright  they  ran  for  their  lives,  as 
they  believed,  into  a  wood  close  by.  They  heard  a 
shot  fired  after  them.  They  heard  a  crashing  of  horses 
that  were  forced  through  the  bushes  in  their  rear.  They 
ran  madly  up  hills  and  down  muddy  hollows.  When 
Merrylips  stumbled,  Rupert  caught  her  hand  and 
dragged  her  along.  Not  till  they  had  left  the  pursuit 
far  behind  them  did  they  drop  down,  all  scratched  and 
bemired,  and  lie  sobbing  for  breath. 

After  that  they  shaped  their  course  eastward,  away 
from  the  danger  belt  between  the  lines,  where  they 
had  been  travelling.  Presently,  said  Rupert,  they  would 
turn  westward  again,  but  for  now,  till  the  country  was 
quieter,  they  would  keep  to  the  settled  parts  that  were 
held  for  the  Parliament. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  thought  up  a  story  to  tell, 
if  they  were  caught  and  questioned.  He  would  say 
that  they  were  cousins  and  that  their  name  was  Smith, 
for  that  was  a  common,  honest- sounding  name.  He 
would  say,  too,  that  they  had  been  at  school  near  Hor- 


THE  DARKEST   DAY  203 

sham  and  had  run  away  to  join  the  Parliament  army 
and  fight  the  Cavaliers. 

'"And  we  must  call  'em  wicked  Cavaliers,  and  abuse 
'em  roundly,"  said  Rupert,  who  was  very  proud  of 
his  plan,  "and  then  no  doubt  they'll  believe  us  little 
rebels  and  let  us  go  about  our  business." 

Merrylips  was  not  over-pleased  at  the  thought  of 
telling  so  many  fibs,  nor  did  she  wish  to  pass  herself 
off  as  a  rebel.  More  than  ever  she  feared  and  hated  all 
that  party  since  the  meeting  with  the  Roundhead 
patrol.  But  she  said  nothing,  for  she  wished  to  do  as 
Rupert  wished,  since  he  was  kind  to  her. 

For  Rupert  had  kept  his  word,  ever  since  that  twi- 
light outside  King's  Slynton.  Not  once  had  he  been 
rough  with  Merrylips.  He  made  her  rest,  while  he 
went  alone  to  get  their  food.  He  gave  her  all  the 
choicest  bits.  He  carried  her  on  his  back  when  they 
forded  streams.  Because  he  was  the  older  and  the 
stronger,  he  took  good  care  of  her,  as  he  had  promised 
to  do.  But  all  the  time  she  knew  that  it  was  only 
because  she  was  weak  that  he  was  kind. 

She  meant  to  be  very  brave  and  strong.  But  she 
did  not  find  it  so  easy  to  be  a  boy,  out  in  the  cold 
woods,  as  she  had  found  it  in  the  cheery  mess-room  at 
Monksfield.  She  did  not  whimper,  no,  not  once,  but 
she  could  not  walk  so  stoutly  as  Rupert,  for  all  her 


204  MERRYLIPS 

trying.  And  she  caught  a  cold,  and  she  had  such  a 
sore  throat  that  she  could  scarcely  eat  their  hard  food. 
Rupert  did  not  scold,  but  she  knew  that  she  must  seem 
to  him  weak  and  cowardly. 

Now  before  long  Merrylips  had  blistered  her  feet. 
Rupert  had  strained  a  tendon  in  his  ankle,  at  the  very 
outset,  and  though  he  made  light  of  it,  he  went  each  day 
more  lame.  Thus  crippled,  they  could  not  travel  far  in 
a  single  day.  So  it  was  that,  about  the  time  when  they 
turned  westward  again,  they  found  that,  though  they  had 
not  half  finished  their  journey,  they  had  spent  all  their 
money. 

Soon  they  had  nothing  left  but  Merrylips'  three 
half -pence.  These  Rupert  gave  one  morning  for  a 
noggin  of  milk  and  a  piece  of  soft  bread,  which  he 
bought  at  a  farmyard  gate.  And  he  made  Merrylips 
drink  and  eat  it,  every  drop  and  crumb. 

The  dairymaid  from  whom  they  bought  the  food 
must  have  run  and  told  her  mistress  about  them,  for 
scarcely  had  Merrylips  done  eating,  when  the  farmer's 
wife,  a  big,  rosy  woman,  came  bustling  out  of  the 
house.  She  looked  at  the  two  little  boys,  who  were 
standing  forlornly  by  the  bars,  in  the  cold  dawn,  and 
then  she  called  to  them  to  come  in. 

Merrylips  was  so  tired  and  sick  that  she  would  have 
gone  to  the  woman,  even  if  she  were  a  rebel.  But 
Rupert  whispered :  — 


THE   DARKEST   DAY  205 

rt  'Tis  a  trap !  No  doubt  she  would  betray  us  to 
the  Roundhead  soldiers!" 

So  saying,  he  caught  Merrylips  by  the  arm  and  hur- 
ried her  away.  He  would  not  let  her  stop  running  till 
he  had  led  her  deep  into  a  lonely  growth  of  willows 
that  drooped  above  a  swollen  brook. 

"But  I  doubt  —  if  she  would  have  served  us  —  an 
ill  turn,"  Merrylips  panted,  as  soon  as  she  got  breath. 
"She  looked  right  kind." 

"Ay,  she  was  one  of  thy  rebel  friends,"  sneered 
Rupert,  and  flung  her  hand  from  his. 

Yet  there  was  some  excuse  for  his  ill  humor.  After 
all,  he  was  but  a  young  boy,  and  he  suffered  cruelly 
with  his  aching  foot,  and  he  had  not  eaten  in  hours. 
What  with  pain  and  hunger  and  fear  for  the  future, 
it  was  no  wonder,  perhaps,  that  he  was  quite 
savage.  In  any  case,  he  went  and  lay  down  in  the 
shelter  of  a  bank,  and  turned  his  back  upon  his  little 
comrade. 

Merrylips  was  left  sitting  alone  by  the  brookside. 
She  wondered  what  would  become  of  them  now.  Here 
they  were,  in  the  enemy's  country,  without  money,  and 
without  friends,  and  without  strength  to  travel  farther. 
Perhaps  they  would  die  right  there,  like  the  poor  babes 
in  the  old  ballad  that  Goody  Trot  used  to  sing. 

When  she  thought  of  Goody  Trot,  she  thought  of 


206  MERRYLIPS 

all  the  kind  old  days  at  Larkland,  and  she  was  almost 
ready  to  cry.  But  she  drew  from  within  her  shirt  the 
silver  ring,  and  kissed  it,  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
it.  She  thought  of  Lady  Sybil,  and  how  she  had  told 
her  that  she  could  be  as  brave  as  a  boy,  whatever  dress 
she  wore.  Then  she  grew  ashamed  that  she,  who  was 
Lady  Sybil's  goddaughter  and  Sir  Thomas  Venner's  child, 
should  be  cast  down,  only  because  she  was  a  little  cold 
and  hungry.  So  she  made  herself  sing  softly,  and  she 
sat  turning  the  ring  between  her  fingers  while  she 
thought  what  a  brave,  merry  face  she  would  have  to 
show  to  Rupert  when  he  woke. 

Suddenly,  like  a  clap  of  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky, 
she  felt  a  stinging  blow  across  her  cheek.  Her  head 
rang  with  it.  Her  eyes  were  dazzled  with  dancing 
stars.  Through  a  haze  she  saw  Rupert  standing 
over  her  with  fists  clenched  and  eyes  that  flamed. 

"Tibbott  Venner,  thou  little  thief!"  he  choked. 
"Give  me  that  ring." 

From  where  she  had  fallen  upon  her  elbow  Merry- 
lips  stared  up  at  him. 

"But,  Rupert,"  she  said,  "'tis  mine!  'Tis  mine 
own  ring." 

"Thou  dost  lie!"  he  cried.  "I  could  ha'  forgiven 
thee  aught  else.  But  to  serve  me  such  a  turn  —  when 
I  had  cared  for  thee,  well  as  I  knew !    I  gave  thee  the 


THE   DARKEST  DAY  207 

last  o'  the  bread  and  the  milk  —  all  of  it  I  gave  thee,  be- 
cause thou  wast  little.  And  then  thou  —  thou  lying 
little  trickster!    I  vow  I'll  beat  thee  for't!" 

Still  Merrylips  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  Thou  art  strong.     Thou  canst  do  it,"  she  whispered. 

Rupert  lifted  his  clenched  fist,  but  he  let  it  fall  as 
he  met  her  eyes.  He  did  not  strike  her.  Instead  he 
bent  and  snatched  at  the  ring,  where  it  hung  about 
her  neck.  So  fiercely  did  he  snatch  that  he  broke 
the  cord  and  brought  the  ring  away  in  his  hand. 

" Shift  for  thyself  now!"  he  flung  the  words  at  her. 
"I'll  bear  wi'  thee  no  longer,  thou  liar!  thou  thief! 
And  to  do't  while  I  slept  and  trusted  thee  !" 

Still  Merrylips  said  not  a  word.  Dumb  and  wide- 
eyed,  she  sat  with  her  hand  to  her  throbbing  cheek, 
while  she  watched  Rupert  turn  and  stride  away  along 
the  brookside.  She  watched  till  he  had  passed  out  of 
sight,  and  the  branches  that  he  had  thrust  aside  no 
longer  stirred. 

Then  she  groped  with  her  fingers  and  touched  the 
broken  cord  where  the  ring  had  hung.  She  had  not 
dreamed  it,  then.  Rupert  had  robbed  her,  and  for- 
saken her.  She  did  not  cry,  but  she  gave  a  little  moan, 
and  drooping  forward,  sank  upon  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AFTER  THE   STORM 

At  first  Merrylips  could  not  guess  what  had  hap- 
pened to  her.  Perhaps,  she  thought,  she  had  been 
drowned.  Her  face  was  all  wet  and  dripping,  and  she 
could  hear  a  rushing  sound  of  water. 

But  when  she  raised  her  heavy  eyelids,  she  saw  bare 
willow  branches  against  a  gray  sky.  She  lay  by  a 
brookside,  she  remembered.  The  sound  of  water  that 
she  had  heard  must  be  the  rushing  of  the  brook. 

Then  she  found  that  Rupert  was  bending  over  her. 
But  this  was  a  Rupert  whom  she  had  never  known. 
This  Rupert  had  a  gray,  drawn  face  that  twitched  and 
eyes  that  were  wide  and  frightened.  He  was  chafing 
her  hands  in  his  and  saying  over  and  over :  — 

"Tibbott!  Tibbott!  Don't  die !  Prithee,  say  thou 
wilt  not  die !  I  did  not  know.  I  am  sorry.  Only 
don't  die,  Tibbott!     Say  thou  wilt  not  die!" 

She  did  not  understand.  She  could  remember  only 
that  he  had  struck  her,  and  she  shrank  from  his  touch. 

She  heard  a  sound  of  sobbing.  But  she  knew  it  was 
not   she   that  cried.     She  had   promised   Munn  that 

208 


AFTER  THE   STORM  20$ 

she  would  be  brave.  She  raised  her  eyes  again,  and 
she  saw  Rupert  on  his  knees  beside  her,  with  his  ragged 
sleeve  pressed  to  his  face.  It  was  he  that  was  sobbing, 
for  all  that  he  was  a  big  boy. 

"But  wilt  thou  not  even  let  me  touch  thee  —  when 
'tis  to  help  thee?"  he  begged.  "For  I'm  sorry,  Tib- 
bott.  And  here's  thy  ring  again.  As  soon  as  I  knew, 
I  ran  back  and  found  thee  fainting.  And  I  would 
not  ha'  done  it,  Tibbott,  but  indeed  they  were  very  like. 
So  I  thought  thou  hadst  taken  mine,  and  —  and  it 
meaneth  much  to  me,  more  than  I  can  tell  thee,  Tib- 
bott. And  I  thought,  there  at  King's  Slynton,  when 
the  rebels  searched  me,  they  would  find  it  and  take  it 
from  me.  So  many  times  since  I've  dreamed  'twas 
taken  from  me  and  was  lost !  So  when  I  woke  and 
thought  to  see  it  in  thy  hands,  so  careless,  I  was  angered. 
Tibbott,  wilt  thou  not  understand  and  —  and  not 
forgive  me,  perhaps,  but  let  me  help  thee  ?  For  indeed 
they  are  so  like!    Look  but  upon  them,  Tibbott!" 

She  thought  that  she  must  be  very  ill  indeed,  and  that 
she  was  seeing  things  double.  For  there  in  Rupert's 
hand,  as  he  held  it  out  to  her,  lay  two  rings,  wrought 
of  dull  old  silver  in  the  shape  of  two  hearts  entwined. 
She  stared  at  them  blankly,  and  Rupert,  who  thought 
from  her  silence  that  she  was  still  angry,  hid  his  face 
in  his  arms. 


2IO  MERRYLIPS 

But  in  that  silence  Merrylips  began  slowly  to  under- 
stand what  had  happened.  She  saw  that  Rupert,  how 
or  why  she  could  not  guess,  had  had  a  ring  like  hers 
and  prized  it  dearly.  No  wonder,  then,  that  when 
he  had  seen  her  handling  such  a  ring  he  had  thought 
her  a  little  thief,  until  he  had  searched  and  found  his 
own  ring  in  its  place.  He  was  not  wholly  to  blame, 
and  until  that  hour  he  had  been  kind. 

How  glad  she  was  to  feel  that  she  could  forgive  him ! 
"Rupert!"  she  whispered,  but  so  softly  that  he  did 
not  heed. 

Then  she  dragged  herself  to  him  and  put  her  two 
arms  round  his  shoulders. 

"Rupert !"  she  said  again,  and  bent  and  kissed  him. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  for  a  moment  they 
clung  to  each  other. 

"Thou  art  the  strangest  lad,  Tibbott!"  choked 
Rupert.  "But  thou  dost  not  bear  me  ill  will?  Indeed 
thou  dost  not?" 

Merrylips  nodded,  as  she  settled  herself  beside  him. 
She  felt  too  weak  to  talk,  but  she  was  very  happy. 

For  a  moment  Rupert  too  was  silent,  while  he  busied 
himself  in  tying  Merrylips'  ring  once  more  upon  the 
broken  cord.  But  presently  he  said,  in  a  humble 
voice :  — 

"Wilt  thou  tell  me,  Tibbott  —  if  'tis  not  a  secret  — 


AFTER  THE   STORM  211 

how  thou  ever  earnest  by  this  ring  which  is  like  mine 
own?" 

"I  had  it  of  my  godmother,"  Merrylips  answered, 
and  she  was  almost  too  faint  to  notice  what  she  said. 
"My  godmother,  with  whom  I  dwelt  at  Larkland  — 
Lady  Sybil  Fernefould  —  she  for  whom  I  am  named." 

Rupert  let  his  hands  fall  from  the  cord  with  which 
he  was  fumbling.  In  blank  surprise  he  looked  at  her, 
and  suddenly  from  his  face  she  knew  what  she  had 
said.     In  her  dismay  she  roused  from  her  faintness. 

"Oh,  Rupert!"  she  cried,  and  hid  her  hot  face  in 
her  hands.  "And  I  promised  not  to  tell  —  and  I  have 
told!" 

It  seemed  to  her  a  long  time  that  she  sat  with  her 
face  hidden  and  grieved  for  her  broken  promise.  Then 
she  heard  Rupert  say  in  a  puzzled  voice,  but  quite 
gently :  — 

"Lady  Sybil  —  for  whom  thou  art  named?  But 
then  —  Why,  Tibbott,  is  it  true  thou  art  not  Tibbott 
—  that  thou  art  a  little  maid?" 

"Ay!"  she  answered  with  her  face  hidden. 

Presently  she  felt  her  two  hands  found  and  taken 
into  Rupert's  hands. 

"Prithee,  look  up!"  he  said.  "And  be  not  sorry. 
My  word,  I  might  ha'  guessed  it  —  only  no  one  of  all 
the    men    mistrusted !     'Twas    because    thou    wast   a 


212  MERRYLIPS 

maid,  belike,  thou  hadst  so  tender  a  heart,  even  foi 
the  pestilent  rebels.  And  I  mocked  at  thee  for  it. 
I  am  right  sorry,  mistress." 

She  looked  up  at  Rupert  then.  She  felt  that  at  last 
they  knew  each  other  and  would  be  friends.  She  was 
so  glad  that  she  smiled  at  him,  and  he  too  laughed  as 
he  knelt  before  her. 

"How  thou  didst  trick  us  all!"  he  cried.  "Why, 
Tibbott  —  mistress,    I    mean — " 

"My  brothers  call  me  Merrylips,"  she  said. 

Rupert  cocked  his  head,  as  if  he  thought  the  name 
odd,  but  he  repeated,  "Merrylips,"  and  they  laughed 
together. 

"I  never  knew  of  such  a  maid,"  Rupert  kept  repeat- 
ing. "How  couldst  thou  walk  as  thou  hast  done,  and 
fare  so  poorly,  and  not  fret,  thou  that  hast  been  reared 
a  gentlewoman?" 

Then  he  hesitated  and  seemed  to  remember  some- 
thing. 

"Merrylips,"  he  asked,  "did  I  dream  it,  or  didst  thou 
say  indeed  that  thou  didst  dwell  with  thy  godmother 
at  a  place  called  Larkland?" 

Merrylips  nodded.  Rupert  passed  his  hand  across 
his  forehead. 

"There  was  a  house  called  Larkland,"  he  said  slowly, 
"when  we  came  first  into  England,  Claus  and  I,  and  a 


AFTER  THE   STORM  21 3 

sickness  was  on  me.  And  there  was  a  kind  little  maid 
that  led  us  home,  and  said  we  should  be  friends." 

He  paused,  and  sat  gazing  at  Merrylips. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "and  next  morning  I  sat  in 
the  cherry  tree  and  saw  thee  stealing  away  from  Lark- 
land." 

"Then  it  was  thou  indeed!"  cried  Rupert.  "And 
I  never  knew  thee,  Tibbott,  —  Merrylips,  I  mean,  — 
though  I  had  thought  upon  thee  often,  for  thou  wast 
so  kind,  when  every  one  was  harsh  unto  us." 

But  now  that  Merrylips  remembered  the  old  days 
at  Larkland  and  her  godmother's  suspicions  of  Rupert, 
she  grew  sober  again. 

"Wilt  thou  not  tell  me,  Rupert,"  she  said,  "why 
thou  didst  steal  away  from  Larkland,  so  like  a  thief, 
when  we  all  would  have  used  thee  kindly?" 

For  a  moment  Rupert  was  silent.  Then  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  silver  ring  that  was  the  counterpart 
of  the  one  that  hung  at  Merrylips'  neck. 

"If  I  tell  thee  a  part,  I  will  tell  thee  all,"  he  said, 
"and  I  am  fain  to  tell  thee,  if  thou  wilt  listen." 

"Tell  me  everything,"   bade  Merrylips. 

So  the  two  children  settled  themselves,  side  by  side, 
under  the  bare  willows,  and  Rupert  told  the  story  of 
his  silver  ring. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HE  THAT  WAS   LOST 

"First  of  all,"  Rupert  began,  "my  name  is  not 
Rupert  Hinkel,  no  more  than  thine  is  Tibbott.  I  am 
no  kinsman  to  Claus  Hinkel,  nor  to  any  peasant  folk. 
I  am  a  gentleman's  son,  and  come  of  as  good  blood, 
they  say,  as  any  in  all  England." 

Indeed,  as  he  spoke,  with  his  head  thrown  back  and 
his  chin  uplifted,  Rupert  looked  what  he  claimed  to 
be.     Merrylips  believed  him,  only  hearing  him  say  it. 

"My  right  name,"  he  went  on,  "is  called  Robert 
Lucas." 

"Lucas!  'Tis  a  name  I've  heard,"  said  Merrylips. 
"Perchance  I  shall  remember  where." 

He  looked  at  her  eagerly. 

"If  thou  couldst  but  help  me!"  he  sighed.  "I'll 
tell  thee  all,  but  there's  so  much  I  do  not  know  and  I 
can  never  learn.  For  I  was  but  a  little  babe  when 
both  my  father  and  my  mother  died.  My  father  was 
an  English  gentleman,  one  Captain  Lucas.  He  was 
an  officer  in  the  army  of  the  Emperor  Ferdinand,  and 

2*4 


HE  THAT  WAS   LOST  21 5 

he  was  serving  in  High  Germany.  My  mother  was 
with  him.  She  was  an  Englishwoman,  a  great  lady 
in  her  own  country,  and  with  a  face  like  an  angel, 
so  my  nurse  hath  ofttimes  told  me. 

"My  mother  held  that  the  camp  was  too  rude  a  place 
in  which  to  nurture  me.  So  she  gave  me,  but  three 
months  old,  to  a  good  woman,  Jettchen  Kronk,  a 
farmer's  wife,  who  nursed  me  with  her  own  child. 
Each  week  my  mother  would  leave  the  camp,  and  ride 
across  the  hills  on  her  palfrey,  with  men  to  attend  her, 
and  visit  me  for  an  hour. 

"One  day,  when  I  was  eight  months  old,  she  gave 
me  this  ring  from  her  hand  to  play  with.  I  fell  asleep 
holding  it  fast,  and  she  would  not  waken  me  to  take  it 
from  me,  when  it  came  her  time  to  go.  She  would  get 
her  ring  when  next  she  came  unto  me,  she  said,  and 
bade  my  nurse  guard  it  safely,  for  'twas  dear  to  her  and 
bore  the  crest  of  her  house.  Then  she  kissed  me  as 
I  slept,  my  nurse  hath  told  me,  and  went  her  way,  and 
never  came  again. 

"For  there  fell  a  great  fever  on  the  camp,  and  among 
the  rest  my  father  and  my  mother  must  have  died, 
for  never  a  word  was  heard  of  them  more.  Many  of 
the  officers  perished,  as  well  as  of  the  soldiers.  Doubt- 
less among  them  were  those  of  my  father's  friends 
that  would  have  been  mindful  of  me.    And  presently, 


2l6  MERRYLIPS 

to  save  the  remnant  of  the  troops,  they  were  sent  to 
another  camp,  miles  away,  across  the  mountains,  and 
I  was  left  behind,  for  there  was  none  now  to  take  thought 
of  me. 

"But  Jettchen  Kronk  loved  me.  Her  own  child, 
my  foster-brother,  died  that  year,  and  her  husband  was 
slain,  and  she  said  that  I  was  all  was  left  unto  her.  So 
when  her  kinsmen  bade  her  cast  me  forth  as  a  beggar 
brat,  she  drove  them  from  her  house.  And  she  reared 
me  tenderly,  as  if  I  had  been  her  own. 

"She  had  me  taught  to  read  and  write,  both  German 
and  Latin,  by  the  priest  of  the  village.  And  she  told 
me  always  how  I  was  a  gentleman  and  the  son  of  a 
gentleman,  and  she  showed  me  this  silver  ring  that  she 
had  kept  for  me.  Through  this  ring,  she  said,  I  should 
one  day  find  my  English  kindred,  who  would  be  glad 
to  welcome  me.  But  the  journey  into  England  was 
very  long,  and  the  country  was  vexed  with  war,  and  she 
herself  was  poor  and  all  unable  to  furnish  me  for  the 
road.  So  I  could  not  hope  to  travel  into  England  until 
I  was  old  enough  and  strong  enough  to  make  mine 
own  way  thither. 

'"Twill  be  three  years  agone,  come  Eastertide,  that 
dear  Jettchen  fell  into  a  lingering  sickness.  She  was 
in  great  fear  for  me,  for  she  knew  that  there  was  none  to 
stand  my  friend  when  she  was  gone.     But  while  she 


HE  THAT   WAS   LOST 


217 


was  thus  troubled,  there  came  to  her  a  cousin,  Claus 
Hinkel,  a  kind,  true  soul  that  had  been  for  years  a 
soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Emperor.  He  promised 
Jettchen  that  he  would  take  me  into  England,  to  my 
kinsfolk  there,  and  so  she  died  with  her  heart  at  peace. 
God  rest  her !  She  was  kinder  to  me  than  any  in  all 
this  world." 

For  a  little  time  after  that  Rupert  sat  blinking  fast. 
Merrylips  did  not  like  to  speak  to  him  in  words,  but 
timidly  she  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  he  did  not  with- 
draw it. 

"I  was  a  very  little  boy,"  he  broke  out  suddenly, 
"and  foolish — -and  so  was  poor  Claus!  —  to  think 
'twas  an  easy  task  we  went  upon.  First  of  all,  we  had 
no  money,  for  my  nurse's  kindred  seized  on  all  she 
owned.  So  for  a  winter  I  dwelt  with  Claus  in  camp 
in  Bohemia,  while  he  put  by  money  for  our  journey  into 
England.  And  there  was  one  in  the  ranks,  a  broken 
Englishman,  who  was  good-natured,  and  such  time  as 
he  was  sober,  taught  me  my  father's  tongue  and  told 
me  much  of  England. 

"At  last  in  the  spring,  we  set  out  across  the  seas. 
For  we  had  heard  rumors  that  there  would  be  war 
in  this  country.  War  was  Claus  Hinkel' s  trade,  and 
he  thought  to  maintain  us  with  his  sword,  should  we 
be  a  long  time  in  finding  my  kinsfolk.     But  we  did 


2l8  MERRYLIPS 

not  think  to  be  long  about  it.  We  were  right 
hopeful ! 

"'Twas  at  Brighthelmstone  we  landed,  and  hard  by, 
in  a  town  called  Lewes,  we  went  unto  a  gentleman, 
a  magistrate,  to  whom  the  country  folk  directed  us. 
I  asked  him  whereabout  in  England  the  Lucases  were 
dwelling.  The  talking  fell  to  me,  thou  dost  understand, 
for  Claus  had  little  mastery  of  English.  But  this 
gentleman  did  but  laugh  and  bid  us  be  off,  and  the  next 
to  whom  we  did  apply  was  angry  and  threatened  to 
set  us  in  the  stocks  for  landleapers  and  vagrants. 

"Then  we  were  afraid,  so  we  stayed  to  question  no 
more,  but  hastened  northward,  as  fast  as  we  could 
travel.  And  that  was  not  fast,  for  I  was  sickening  with 
a  fever.  So  we  came,  as  thou  knowest,  unto  Larkland 
and  oh !  what  a  good  rest  I  had  that  night,  in  a  fair 
bed  with  sheets,  and  I  dreamed  my  mother  came  unto 
me. 

"But  Claus  was  in  great  fear,  for  the  lady  of  Lark- 
land  asked  him  many  questions.  And  he,  that  knew 
little  of  English,  and  remembered  the  angry  magis- 
trate that  had  threatened  us  with  the  stocks,  thought 
that  harm  was  meant  unto  us.  In  the  early  dawn  he 
roused  me,  saying  that  we  must  get  thence.  And  I 
was  stronger,  for  I  had  slept  sweetly  those  hours,  so 
I  rose  and  went  forth  at  his  side. 


HE  THAT   WAS   LOST  219 

"We  were  skirting  the  garden  wall  when  we  heard 
a  rustling  in  a  cherry  tree  above  us.  Claus  hid  him 
under  some  elder  bushes  that  grew  by  the  wall,  but  I  — 
I  was  loath  to  hide.  And  then  thou  didst  speak  unto 
me,  Merrylips,  so  winningly  that  it  seemed  to  me  I'd 
liefer  than  all  the  world  stay  there  at  Larkland.  And 
I  did  hate  to  tell  thee  an  untruth,  indeed  I  did,  but 
Claus  was  signing  to  me,  where  he  lay  hidden,  so  I 
promised  falsely  to  await  thee  there. 

"So  soon  as  thou  wert  gone,  we  hastened  away,  and 
great  part  of  the  time  Claus  bore  me  in  his  arms.  Then 
we  learned  that  the  lady  of  Larkland  had  sent  to  seek 
us  and  hale  us  back,  so  we  were  affrighted  and  hid  us 
and  travelled  always  by  night  till  we  were  far  away." 

"Oh,  Rupert!"  cried  Merrylips,  for  she  could  wait 
no  longer  with  what  she  had  to  tell.  "If  thou  hadst 
but  been  found  that  time  and  brought  back  unto  Lark- 
land, how  well  it  would  have  been  with  thee !  For 
Lady  Sybil  that  is  mistress  of  Larkland  —  canst  thou 
not  guess  who  she  is?" 

Rupert  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  but  he  began  to  breathe  fast,  like  a 
runner  when  he  sees  the  goal. 

"'Twas  she  that  came  to  thy  bed  the  night  that  thou 
didst  dream  thy  mother  stood  nigh  thee,"  Merrylips 
went   on.     "Rupert,    in   very   truth,    my   dear   god- 


220  MERRYLIPS 

mother  must  be  thy  mother's  sister  and  own  aunt  to 
thee." 

Rupert  clenched  and  unclenched  his  hands,  and  for 
a  moment  did  not  speak. 

"  Art  thou  sure  ? "  he  said  at  last.  "How  dost  thou 
know?     Don't  jest  with  me,  I  pray  thee !" 

She  touched  the  ring  at  her  neck,  and  Rupert  held 
out  his  that  was  like  it. 

"Nurse  said  'twould  be  the  ring  would  bring  me  to 
mine  own!"  he  muttered. 

"There  were  two  rings,"  Merrylips  poured  out  her 
story,  "wrought  by  order  of  his  Grace  of  Barrisden 
with  the  crest  of  the  Fernefoulds,  two  hearts  entwined. 
And  one  ring  was  given  to  his  daughter,  Lady  Sybil, 
that  is  my  godmother,  and  here  it  lieth  in  mine  hand. 
And  the  other  was  given  to  his  daughter,  Lady  Venetia, 
that  married  Captain  Edward  Lucas  and  went  into 
Germany,  where  they  both  died  of  a  fever,  as  my  god- 
mother hath  told  me.  And  her  ring  she  left  unto  her 
little  son,  and  thou  dost  hold  it  there,  Rupert,  and 
surely,  by  that  token,  thou  art  the  Lady  Venetia's  child." 

Then  Rupert  caught  her  hands  in  his  and  kissed 
them,  though  he  did  it  roughly,  as  if  he  were  not  used 
to  such  courtesy. 

"Thou  dost  believe  me,  dost  thou  not?"  he  kept 
repeating. 


HE  THAT  WAS   LOST  221 

Merrylips  was  almost  as  wild  as  he.  She  forgot  that 
an  hour  before  she  had  been  tired  and  hungry  and  dis- 
couraged. Over  and  over  she  said  how  glad  she  was, 
how  glad  Lady  Sybil  would  be,  how,  when  they  came 
to  Walsover,  Rupert  would  be  welcomed  by  every  one, 
and  would  have  his  rightful  name  and  place,  and  never 
again  be  poor  and  friendless  and  unhappy. 

But  while  Merrylips  talked  on,  Rupert's  face  grew 
sober  and  more  sober.  At  last  he  checked  her,  though 
gently. 

"But  I  must  tell  thee,  Merrylips,"  he  said  hesitat- 
ingly. "  'Twill  not  be  so  easy  as  thou  dost  think,  and 
as  I  did  think  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  For  after  we 
fled  from  Larkland,  we  came  unto  Oxford,  and  there 
I  took  courage  to  tell  my  story  once  again  unto  a  great 
magistrate. 

"This  magistrate  asked  me  questions:  what  was 
my  father's  Christian  name?  what  was  my  mother's 
surname  ere  she  was  married?  And  I  could  not  tell 
him,  nor  where  I  was  born,  nor  by  whom  christened. 
And  when  I  showed  him  the  ring,  he  said,  how  could  I 
prove  that  it  had  not  been  stolen  and  given  to  me,  a 
peasant  boy,  to  bring  into  England,  if  haply  I  might 
win  money  with  a  lying  tale  of  my  gentle  birth.  And 
he  called  me  impostor  and  bade  me  begone  out  of 
Oxford,  and  threatened  to  take  the  ring  from  me. 


222  MERRYLIPS 

"So  after  that  we  said  no  more,  Claus  and  I,  fol 
indeed  it  seemed  hopeless.  And  we  went  into  the  king's 
army  to  win  us  bread  till  one  day  when  I  was  older 
perhaps  men  would  listen  to  me,  or  perhaps  I  might 
learn  something  further  of  my  lost  kinsfolk." 

"And  so  thou  hast  to-day!"  cried  Merrylips. 

"Ah,  but  will  they  believe  me?"  asked  Rupert, 
wistfully.  "Thou  dost  believe  me,  Merrylips,  for  thou 
art  the  kindest  and  truest  little  maid  in  all  the  world, 
and  thou  knowest  I  do  not  lie  to  thee.  But  will  the 
grown  folk  believe  me  —  thy  godmother,  and  thy  father, 
and  thy  brothers?  Oh,  Merrylips,  dost  think  in  truth 
that  they  will  believe  that  I  am  son  to  Captain  Lucas?" 

For  one  instant  Merrylips  hesitated.  They  were 
strange  folk  indeed,  the  grown  folk.  Even  dear  Lady 
Sybil  had  thought  Claus  and  Rupert  spies  when  they 
came,  sick  and  weary,  to  Larkland.  Even  her  brother 
Munn  had  looked  on  and  smiled  at  the  distress  of  the 
poor  people  at  Storringham.  They  did  not  always 
believe  and  pity  so  quickly  as  did  she,  who  was  young 
and  foolish.  Maybe  they  would  treat  Rupert  as  that 
heartless  magistrate  at  Oxford  had  treated  him. 

But  then  Merrylips  met  Rupert's  eyes,  that  had  grown 
miserable  with  doubt  in  the  moment  while  he  saw  her 
hesitate.  So  she  hesitated  no  more.  Laughing,  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  and  drew  him  up  by  the  hand. 


HE  THAT   WAS   LOST  223 

"Word  a'  truth!"  she  cried  in  her  stoutest  voice. 
"They  shall  believe  thee,  Rupert.  Come,  let  us  be 
off  this  hour  unto  Walsover !  They  shall  believe  that 
thou  art  my  godmother's  nephew  that  was  lost.  And 
if  they  do  not  believe  at  first,  why,  Rupert,  somehow 
we  will  win  them  to  believe !" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HOW  RUPERT  WAS  TOO  CLEVER 

After  all  the  wonders  of  the  last  hour,  Merrylips 
and  Rupert  were  keyed  high  with  excitement.  They 
felt  as  if  they  could  walk  right  along  and  never  tire  until 
they  came  to  Walsover.  But  before  they  had  gone 
a  mile  they  found  that  Master  Robert  Lucas  and  Mis- 
tress Sybil  Venner  were  just  as  hungry  and  footsore 
as  those  little  ragamuffins,  Rupert  Hinkel  and  Tibbott 
Venner,  had  ever  been. 

They  sat  down  at  last  under  a  hedge.  Rupert 
pulled  off  his  doublet  and  folded  it  about  Merrylips, 
though  she  begged  him  keep  it  for  himself. 

"I  am  hardier  than  thou,"  he  said.  "And  I  must 
care  for  thee  tenderly,  since  thou  art  a  little  maid." 

"But  I'm  a  boy,"  Merrylips  answered.  "Munn 
bade  me  be  a  boy,  and  so  I  still  must  be,  unto  all  save 
thee,  until  I  come  among  mine  own  people.  So  do 
not  thou  fret  thyself  for  me,  Rupert,  for  I  am  not  cold 
nor  am  I  overweary." 

They  sat  side  by  side  and  hand  in  hand  while  the 
twilight  closed  round  them.     Across  the  sombre  fields 

224 


HOW  RUPERT  WAS  TOO  CLEVER         225 

they  saw  the  small  lights  of  a  village  kindle  one  by  one. 
Then  suddenly  Rupert  slapped  his  knee. 

"I've  a  plan !"  he  cried. 

Off  he  posted,  and  Merrylips  was  left  alone  in  the 
dark.  She  watched  the  stars  shine  out  above  her,  and 
called  them  by  the  names  that  Lady  Sybil  had  taught 
her.  Then  she  thought  of  Lady  Sybil  and  of  the  joy 
that  would  be  hers,  when  she  saw  her  lost  nephew. 
And  in  that  thought  she  almost  forgot  that  she  was  cold 
and  hungry. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  and  the  village  lights  were 
dimmed,  when  Rupert  came  stumbling  back  across 
the  fields. 

" Here's  bread,"  he  panted,  "a  huge  crusty  piece, 
and  a  bit  o'  cold  bacon,  and  two  great  apples,  and  I've 
a  ha'penny  besides,  and  one  on  'em  gave  me  a  sup  of 
ale,  but  that  I  might  not  bear  away.  Now  eat  of  the 
bread,  Merrylips.  Eat  all  thou  wilt,  for  to-morrow 
we'll  have  more." 

"But  how  didst  thou  come  by  it,  Rupert?"  she 
asked. 

"Honestly,  I  warrant  thee,"  he  said,  and  then  he 
laughed  in  a  shamefaced  manner. 

"I  went  unto  the  village  alehouse,  and  I  sang  for 
the  greasy  clowns  were  sitting  there.  At  Monksfield 
the  officers  said  that  I  was  a  lusty  lad  at  a  catch.     So 


226  MERRYLIPS 

when  I  sang  and  spoke  up  saucily,  these  rude  fellows 
gave  me  of  their  food.  So  thou  seest,"  he  ended, 
"I've  sung  for  thee  at  last,  Merrylips,  though  at  Monks- 
field  I  would  not  do't  for  the  asking." 

Rupert  joked  and  laughed  about  it  bravely.  But 
Merrylips  knew  that,  in  plain  words,  he  had  gone 
a-begging  to  get  food  for  them. 

It  was  the  first  time,  even  in  his  rough  life,  that  Ru- 
pert had  had  to  do  a  thing  that  was  so  hateful  to  his 
pride,  but  it  was  not  the  last  time.  They  had  to  have 
food,  those  two  poor  little  travellers,  and  they  had  no 
money  with  which  to  buy  it.  So  time  after  time  Rupert 
did  the  only  thing  that  he  could  do.  He  slipped  into 
a  farmyard  or  a  lonely  alehouse,  and  there,  with  his 
songs  and  his  pert  speeches,  he  got  now  a  piece  of 
bread,  and  now  a  ha'penny,  and  now,  far  oftener 
than  he  told  Merrylips,  only  cuffs  and  curses  for  his 
pains. 

While  Rupert  went  on  these  risky  errands,  Merry- 
lips hid  in  the  fields.  But  one  afternoon,  when  she 
was  seated  under  a  straw-stack,  she  was  found  by  the 
surly  farmer  that  owned  the  field.  He  shook  her  as 
soundly  as  ever  a  little  boy  was  shaken,  and  threatened 
to  set  his  dog  upon  her.  After  that  Rupert  thought 
it  best  not  to  leave  her  alone,  but  to-  take  her  with 
him  wherever  he  went. 


HOW  RUPERT  WAS  TOO  CLEVER         227 

He  was  sorry  to  do  this.  He  feared  that  she  might 
be  hurt  or  frightened  by  the  rough  men  among  whom 
he  had  to  go.  He  feared  too  lest  the  sight  of  such  a 
young  lad  as  she  seemed,  might  make  people  ask 
questions.  And  just  then  he  was  very  eager  to  escape 
notice. 

They  were  now  drawing  near  to  the  rebel  lines, 
which  they  must  cross,  if  they  would  ever  reach  Wals- 
over.  To  north  of  them  lay  the  town  of  Rye  borough, 
which  was  held  for  the  Parliament  by  Robert  Fowellv. 
Lord  Caversham.  It  was  a  walled  town  with  a  castle, 
—  a  strong  place,  from  which  bands  of  rebels  went 
scouting  through  the  countryside. 

This  much  Rupert  had  learned  in  the  alehouses. 
And  he  and  Merrylips  remembered,  too,  that  it  was 
from  Ryeborough  that  men  and  guns  had  been  sent  to_ 
the  siege  of  Monksfield.  They  feared  the  very  name 
of  the  town,  and  they  would  have  been  glad  to  slip 
from  one  hiding-place  to  another,  and  never  show 
themselves  to  any  one,  till  they  had  left  it  long  miles 
behind  them. 

But  they  could  not  keep  on  marching,  unless  they 
had  food  to  eat.  And  in  order  to  get  food,  they  must 
go  where  people  were.  And  since  the  cross  farmer  had 
frightened  Merrylips,  they  felt  that  they  must  go  to- 
gether.    So  after  some  hours  of  hunger  they  screwed 


228  MERRYLIPS 

up  their  courage,  and  late  of  a  chill  afternoon  limped, 
side  by  side,  into  a  hamlet  of  thatched  cottages  that  was 
called  Long  Wesselford. 

"Be  not  feared!"  Rupert  whispered  to  Merrylips, 
as  they  passed  slowly  down  the  village  street.  "There 
are  no  soldiers  here,  for  I  questioned  yesternight  at 
the  alehouse.  Indeed  I  have  been  wary!  Now  do 
thou  keep  mum  and  let  me  talk  for  both.  And  per- 
chance, an  we  get  a  penny,  we'll  spend  it  for  a  night's 
lodging,  and  lie  beneath  a  roof  for  once." 

"That  would  like  me  mightily!"  sighed  Merrylips. 

In  spite  of  herself  she  shivered  in  her  worn  clothes. 
Up  to  that  time  the  weather  had  been  mercifully  mild, 
but  now  the  night  was  falling  wintry  cold.  The  puddles 
in  the  road  were  scummed  with  ice,  and  in  the  air  was 
a  raw  chill  that  searched  the  very  marrow  of  the  bones. 

Halfway  down  the  street  the  two  children  found  that 
a  stone  had  got  into  Merrylips'  shoe.  So  they  sat  down 
on  the  doorstep  of  a  cottage  that  was  larger  than  the 
others,  while  Rupert  untied  the  shoe-lace  and  shook 
out  the  stone.  They  were  just  ready  to  rise  and  trudge 
on,  when  behind  them  they  heard  the  door  of  the 
cottage  flung  open. 

Out  stepped  a  big,  blowzy  young  woman  that  made 
Merrylips  think  of  Mawkin.  Before  they  could  rise 
and  run  away,  she  was  bending  over  them. 


HOW  RUPERT  WAS  TOO  CLEVER         229 

" Whither  beest  thou  going,  sweetheart?"  she  asked 
Merrylips. 

Rupert  looked  surprised.  You  may  be  sure  that 
he  was  not  spoken  to  in  that  kindly  way,  when  he  went 
alone  into  the  village  alehouses!  But  Rupert  was 
almost  thirteen,  and  looked  a  hardy  little  fellow,  while 
Merrylips,  in  her  ragged  boy's  dress,  did  not  seem 
over  nine  years  old,  and  she  looked  tired  and  piteous 
besides. 

So  the  blowzy  woman  did  perhaps  what  any  woman 
would  have  done,  when  she  took  Merrylips  by  the  hand 
and  drew  her  into  the  cottage.  Merrylips  went  meekly, 
because  the  woman  was  so  large  and  determined,  and 
Rupert  went  because  Merrylips  went. 

Almost  before  they  knew  how  they  had  come  there, 
they  both  were  seated  in  a  warm  chimney-corner,  in 
a  well- scoured  kitchen.  They  had  a  big  bowl  of  por- 
ridge to  share  between  them,  and  the  blowzy  woman 
and  her  old  father,  who  had  sat  nodding  by  the  fire, 
were  asking  them  a  heap  of  questions. 

Merrylips  ate  the  hot  porridge  in  silence,  but  Rupert 
told  the  story  that  he  had  planned  to  tell. 

"My  name  is  called  Hal  Smith,"  he  said  glibly,  "and 
this  is  my  cousin  John.  And  we  were  put  to  school  down 
in  the  Weald  of  Sussex,  but  we  are  fain  to  fight  the — the 
Cavaliers  — "  he  tried  hard  to  say  "wicked  Cavaliers," 


230  MERR\LIPS 

but  in  that  he  failed  utterly  —  "so  we  have  quitted  the 
school  and  are  bound  unto  the  army." 

"Lawk!  The  brave  little  hearts!  Didst  ever  hear 
the  like?"  cried  the  woman,  and  filled  their  bowl  afresh. 

But  the  old  father  chuckled. 

"Runaways,  I's  wager!"  said  he.  "Pack  'em  back 
to  their  schoolmaster,  Daughter  Polly." 

Of  such  a  danger  Rupert  had  never  dreamed.  For 
the  first  time  he  saw  now  that  any  grown  folk  would 
surely  try  to  send  them  back  to  the  school  about  which 
he  had  made  up  his  clever  story.  He  had  told  one 
fib  from  choice,  and  he  found  now,  as  often  happens, 
that  he  must  tell  many  more  from  necessity. 

"Nay,  we  are  no  runaways,"  he  said,  and  he  spoke 
fast  and  trembled  a  little.  "Our  cousin  Smith  hath 
sent  for  us  —  he  that  is  our  guardian.  He  is  with 
the   Parliament  army.     'Tis  to    him  we   are  going." 

"And  where  might  'a  be  serving,  this  kinsman  Smith 
ye  speak  of?"  croaked  Polly's  old  father. 

Rupert  wished  to  answer  promptly,  as  if  it  were  the 
truth  that  he  told.  So  he  spoke  the  first  word  that 
came  into  his  head. 

"At  Ryeborough,"  he  said.  "'Tis  at  Ryeborough 
our  kinsman  Smith  doth  serve.  Ay,  and  we  must  lose 
no  time  in  going  unto  him.  Come,  up  wi'  thee,  John, 
and  let  us  trudge !" 


HOW   RUPERT  WAS  TOO   CLEVER  23 1 

He  slipped  from  his  seat,  and  caught  Merrylips' 
hand.  He  was  no  less  eager  than  she  to  be  safe  out  of 
the  cottage. 

But  as  the  two  children  rose,  they  saw,  for  the  first 
time,  a  tall  young  man  in  a  smock  frock,  who  was  stand- 
ing in  the  outer  doorway.  He  must  have  heard  every 
word  that  they  had  said,  for  he  and  the  blowzy  woman, 
Polly,  were  looking  at  each  other  wisely. 

"Didst  hear  him  say  Ryeborough,  Brother  KitP'JL 
cried  Polly.  "'Tis  happy  chance  they  came  to  us  this 
hour,  poor  dears !" 

"Ay,  happy  chance  indeed!"  the  young  man  said, 
and  clapped  Rupert  on  the  shoulder. 

"Come,  my  fine  cock!"  he  cried.  "What  say  ye 
to  riding  to  your  journey's  end,  instead  of  shogging  on 
your  two  feet?" 

"I  —  I  would  be  beholden  unto  no  one  !"  stammered 
Rupert,  in  great  alarm.     "Let  us  go,  sir!" 

He  fairly  pleaded,  and  Merrylips,  who  was  frightened 
to  see  him  frightened,  bit  her  lip  and  tried  not  to  cry. 

"Thou  seest,  Kit,  the  little  one  is  near  forspent, 
poor  lamb!"  said  kindly  Polly,  and  stroked  Merrylips' 
tumbled  hair. 

"Don't  'ee  be  afeard  now,  pretty!"  she  comforted. 
"'Tis  no  trouble  ye'll  be  to  my  brother  Kit.  He  is 
drawing  two  wain-loads  of  horse-litter  to  Ryeborough 


232  MERRYLIPS 

this  night.  He'll  find  space  to  stow  ye  in  the  wain, 
all  snug  and  cosey,  and  in  the  morn  ye'll  be  safe  with 
your  cousin  Smith." 

"I  ha'  seen  him  in  Ryeborough  market-place," 
said  Kit.  "  Smith  !  'Tis  a  thick-set  fellow,  and  serveth 
in  my  lord's  own  troop  of  carabineers." 

When  Rupert  and  Merrylips  heard  this,  they  were 
filled  with  terror.  But  they  had  to  look  pleased.  They 
dared  not  do  anything  else.  If  they  were  to  say  now 
that  they  did  not  wish  to  go  to  Ryeborough,  that  they 
had  no  kinsman  named  Smith,  and  that  all  of  Rupert's 
story  was  a  lie,  they  were  sure  that  they  should  suffer 
some  dreadful  punishment. 

In  sorry  silence  they  took  the  penny  and  the  ginger- 
bread that  kind  Polly  gave  them.  They  shuffled  out 
into  the  raw,  chill  twilight  of  the  street.  They  found 
that  already  the  great  wains  had  rumbled  up  and  were 
halted  at  the  door.  They  saw  no  help  for  it,  so  they 
let  themselves  be  lifted  up  by  Brother  Kit  and  the 
stout  carters,  and  placed  among  the  sheaves  of  straw 
beneath  an  old  horse-blanket. 

"Have  an  eye  to  'em,  Kit  Woolgar  ! "  Polly  called  from 
the  doorway,  where  she  stood  with  a  cloak  wrapped 
about  her.  "And  don't  'ee  let  'em  down  till  'ee  come 
to  Ryeborough,  else  they'll  perish  by  the  way." 

And  to  Rupert  and  Merrylips  she  called :  — 


HOW  RUPERT  WAS  TOO  CLEVER         233 

"Good  speed  to  ye,  Hal  Smith,  and  little  John\ 
Your  troubles  all  are  ended  now,  dear  hearts  I" 

But  Rupert  and  Merrylips,  with  their  faces  turned  to 
the  dreaded  town  of  rebel  Ryeborough,  thought  that 
in  very  truth  their  troubles  were  just  beginning. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

IN   THE   ENEMY'S   CAMP 

While  the  wain  jolted  through  the  stiffening  mire, 
Rupert  and  Merrylips  whispered  together.  They  agreed 
that  at  the  first  chance  they  would  scramble  down 
noiselessly  from  the  wain  and  run  away,  before  Kit 
Woolgar  could  stop  them.  But  they  would  not  make  this 
brave  dash  just  yet,  for  a  great  white  moon  was  staring 
m  the  sky,  and  the  road  was  running  through  open 
fields,  where  they  might  easily  be  seen  and  hunted  down. 

"We  will  wait,"  said  Rupert,  "till  the  night  weareth 
late  and  is  dark,  and  the  carters  are  sleepy  and  forget 
to  watch  us.  No  doubt,  too,  the  road  will  lead  presently 
among  trees,  where  we  may  hide  ourselves.  Ay,  we 
shall  do  wisely  to  wait." 

That  would  have  been  a  very  prudent  course,  but  for 
one  thing,  on  which  Master  Rupert  had  not  counted. 
Late  in  the  evening,  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and 
the  time  for  escape  seemed  near  at  hand,  they  came 
to  a  crossway.  There  they  were  joined  by  three  more 
wains,  and  guarding  these  wains,  and  ready  to  guard 
them,  too,  was  a  little  squad  of  Roundhead  troopers. 

234 


Rupert  and  Merryi.ips  knew  it  was  useless  to  think  of  escape. 


IN  THE  ENEMY'S   CAMP  235 

While  those  big,  grim  men  rode  alongside  the  wains, 
Rupert  and  Merrylips  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  think 
of  escape.  So  they  gave  up  hope,  and  cuddled  down 
amongst  the  straw,  beneath  the  horse-blanket. 

They  wondered,  in  whispers,  what  they  should  do 
next  day  when  they  were  handed  over  to  the  thick-set 
Smith,  who  served  at  Ryeborough.  Surely,  they 
should  be  known  at  once  as  no  kinsmen  of  his !  Then 
perhaps  they  should  be  judged  to  be  spies,  because 
they  had  told  false  stories.  And  spies  —  were  not 
spies  always  hanged  ? 

In  their  fright  they  thought  that  they  should  lie 
awake  till  daybreak.  But  they  were  so  tired  that  they 
were  lulled  by  the  padding  of  the  horse-hoofs  and  the 
creaking  of  the  wheels.  And  before  they  knew  it, 
they  both  fell  fast  asleep. 

When  they  woke,  a  cold,  wintry  light  was  gleaming 
all  about  them.  The  wain  in  which  they  sat  was  just 
rumbling  over  a  bridge.  Beneath  the  bridge  ran  black 
water,  which  all  along  its  banks  was  fringed  with  crispy 
ice.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge  the  stone  walls 
of  a  castle  stood  up  grimly  against  the  sky. 

"  'Tis  Ryeborough  !  "  whispered  Rupert.  "And  'tis 
neck  or  nothing  now !  So  soon  as  we  are  set  upon  the 
ground,  we  must  run  for't!" 

They   passed   through   a   narrow,   arched   gateway 


236  MERRYLIPS 

in  the  massive  wall,  where  sentinels  kept  watch.  They 
came  into  a  steep  street,  which  ran  between  high  houses 
that  shut  out  the  sun.  Up  one  street  and  down  an- 
other they  rumbled. 

Everywhere,  it  seemed  to  them,  they  saw  soldiers, 
on  foot  and  on  horseback,  officers  and  men.  They 
heard,  now  near,  now  far,  the  blare  of  trumpets  and  the 
roll  of  drums.  On  the  footway  girls  went  laughing  by, 
and  at  their  breasts  they  wore  knots  of  orange  ribbon, 
the  color  of  the  Parliament.  Always  the  great  bulk 
of  the  castle  loomed  against  the  sky,  and  from  its  highest 
tower  drooped  a  banner  that  in  the  sunlight  gleamed 
the  hue  of  orange. 

In  the  very  heart  of  the  rebel  town,  after  so  many 
twistings  and  turnings  that  it  was  hard  to  say  how 
they  had  come  there,  the  wains  halted  in  a  dirty  court- 
yard, near  some  gaunt  stables.  The  soldiers  of  the  escort 
swung  heavily  from  their  saddles.  The  carters  clam- 
bered down  and  began  to  unhitch  the  steaming  horses. 

"Down  wi'  ye,  lads !"  sang  out  Kit  Woolgar,  cheerily. 
"Else  ye'll  be  cast  into  the  stalls  forthwith !" 

All  a-tremble,  Merrylips  clambered  over  the  trusses 
of  straw  and  let  herself  down  into  Woo]gar's  arms. 

"Nigh  frozen,  art  thou?"  the  young  man  said.  "Do 
'ee  but  wait,  and  speedily  I'll  get  thee  a  swig  of  some- 
thing hot,  my  youngster.'' 


IN  THE   ENEMY'S   CAMP  237 

As  he  spoke,  Woolgar  took  his  hand  from  Merrylips 
and  turned  to  look  to  his  horses.  In  that  moment 
Rupert  caught  her  arm. 

"Run!"  he  whispered.  "Quick!  'Tis  our  one 
chance." 

Like  frightened  hares  they  darted  toward  the  entrance 
of  the  courtyard.  They  slipped  on  the  frosty  cobbles. 
They  stumbled,  for  they  were  cramped  and  stiff  with 
lying  still  so  long.  Behind  them  they  heard  men  shout, 
and  at  that  sound  they  ran  the  faster. 

Outside  the  gate  they  dived  into  a  narrow  alley.  At 
the  farther  end  was  a  wall,  over  which  they  flung  them- 
selves. Beyond  the  wall  were  squalid  courts,  and 
frost-nipped  gardens,  and  walls,  and  more  walls. 

At  last  they  halted  in  a  damp  courtyard.  They 
were  too  spent  to  run  a  step  farther.  They  crept  into 
a  great  empty  cask,  which  lay  on  its  side  among  some 
rubbish  against  a  blank  wall.  There  they  crouched 
and  waited,  while  they  listened  for  the  coming  of  pur- 
suers. 

They  heard  no  sound,  but  long  after  they  had  got 
breath  again  they  stayed  in  their  hiding-place.  They 
ate  Polly  Woolgar' s  gingerbread,  and  still  they  were 
very  hungry.  They  found  it  cold,  too,  in  that  damp 
court.  And  because  they  were  hungry  and  cold  they 
could  not  stay  there  forever    About  the  middle  of  the 


238  MERRYLIPS 

afternoon  they  crawled  out  of  the  cask,  and  with  hearts 
in  their  mouths  stole  into  the  streets  of  the  rebel  town. 

"If  we  ask  questions,"  said  Rupert,  "they'll  know 
us  for  strangers.  So  we'll  make  as  if  we  knew  the  way, 
and  stroll  about  like  idle  boys,  and  in  time  we'll  hit 
upon  a  gate.  And  then  mayhap  we  can  slip  through 
it  into  the  open  country." 

Merrylips  smiled  unsteadily.  She  felt  as  if  she  could 
not  breathe  until  she  was  outside  of  the  rebel  town. 
She  kept  tight  hold  of  Rupert's  hand,  and  whenever 
they  met  a  Roundhead  soldier,  pressed  closer  to  Ru- 
pert's side. 

They  had  threaded  a  maze  of  little  lanes  that  were 
overhung  with  dingy  houses,  and  now  they  came  into 
the  pale  sunlight  of  an  open  space.  In  the  middle  of 
this  space  stood  a  market-cross,  and  at  the  right  a 
steep  street  wound  upward  to  the  castle. 

"Sure,  here's  the  centre  of  things!"  Rupert  began 
joyfully.  "Now  I  will  take  my  bearings.  Cheerly, 
Merrylips !    We'll  soon  be  clear  o'  this  coil. " 

Right  in  the  middle  of  his  brave  words,  he  stopped, 
with  his  lips  parted  and  his  eyes  wide.  Merrylips 
looked  up  in  great  fright.  There  by  the  market-cross, 
not  twenty  paces  from  them,  a  group  of  men  were 
lounging,  and  one  of  them  was  a  talk  young  fellow  in 
a  smock  frock. 


IN  THE  ENEMY'S   CAMP  239 

"'Tis  Kit  Woolgar  himself!"  whispered  Rupert. 
"Quick,  ere  he  see  us !    Turn  in  at  this  door !" 

Right  beside  them,  as  Rupert's  quick  eye  had  noted, 
a  door  stood  open.  Over  it  hung  a  board,  on  which 
was  painted  a  spotted  dog,  and  a  bush  of  evergreen, 
which  meant  that  wine  was  sold  inside.  The  house 
was  a  tavern,  then,  and  it  was  called  the  Spotted  Dog. 
A  rough  place  it  seemed,  but  Rupert  and  Merrylips 
were  glad  of  any  port  in  storm. 

Hurriedly  they  turned  in  at  the  open  door.  They 
went  down  a  flagged  passage.  They  stepped  into 
a  low-ceiled  taproom.  There,  on  benches  by  the  fire, 
lounged  a  half-dozen  burly  musketeers,  who  wore 
the  colors  of  the  Parliament. 

At  the  mere  sight  of  the  enemy,  Merrylips  shrank 
back,  but  Rupert  tightened  his  hold  on  her  hand. 
He  knew  that  thers  was  no  retreat  for  them  now.  With 
head  up,  he  marched  across  the  sanded  floor,  and 
halted  at  the  bar. 

"A  penny  'orth  o'  beer,  sirrah,  and  see  that  thou 
dost  skink  it  handsomely!"  he  said  to  the  tapster, 
in  his  most  manlike  voice. 

Some  among  the  soldiers  chuckled,  and  the  tapster 
grinned,  as  he  handed  Rupert  the  can  of  beer  for  which 
he  had  called.  But  Rupert  bore  himself  manfully. 
He  clanged  down  the  one  penny  that  Polly  had  given 


240  MERRYLIPS 

him,  and  then  he  strode  to  a  bench.     There  he  sat 
down  and  made  Merrylips  sit  beside  him. 

"Drink  slowly,"  he  bade  beneath  his  breath.  "By 
the  time  we  are  done,  Kit  Woolgar  haply  will  be  gone, 
and  we  can  slip  forth  again  in  safety." 

But  Merrylips  had  scarcely  taken  a  sup  of  the  beer, 
when  one  of  the  soldiers  sauntered  toward  them. 

"By  your  coat,  master,  I  judge  ye  are  come  hither 
to  join  our  ranks, "  he  said. 

His  voice  was  grave,  but  his  eyes  were  laughing 
Clearly  he  did  not  think  Rupert  so  much  of  a  man  as 
Merrylips  thought  him. 

Rupert  flushed  and  took  a  swallow  of  beer,  and 
Merrylips  hung  her  head,  but  they  could  not  hope  to 
escape  by  keeping  silent.  The  soldiers  were  idle  and 
ready  for  sport.  So  they  began  to  chaff  the  two  chil- 
dren, roughly,  but  not  altogether  ill-humoredly.  Like 
it  or  not,  Rupert  had  to  answer,  but  after  his  experience 
at  Polly  Woolgar' s  he  was  slow  to  make  up  stories. 

"We  are  come  hither  to  fight,  yes,"  he  muttered. 
"To  fight  for  the  Parliament." 

"Good  Parliament  men,  eh?"  struck  in  one  hulking 
fellow. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  caught  Merrylips  by  the  shoulders 
and  stood  her  on  her  feet.  He  thrust  the  can  of  beer 
into  her  hands. 


IN  THE  ENEMY'S   CAMP  24 1 

"Where's  your  civility,  bantling?"  said  he.  "Will 
ye  wet  your  throat,  and  never  a  pious  wish  for  the  cause 
ye  follow  ?  Drink  it  off,  come !  Heaven  speed  the 
Parliament,  and  down  wi'  the  wicked  king!" 

Merrylips  had  raised  the  can  to  her  mouth.  She 
was  too  startled  to  dream  of  anything,  except  to  obey. 
But  as  she  heard  those  last  words,  she  stopped  and 
across  the  rim  stared  at  the  man. 

She  had  thought  that  she  was  going  to  drink.  She 
feared  that  Rupert,  who  spoke  so  glibly  of  fighting  for 
the  Parliament,  might  think  it  like  a  girl,  if  she  should 
refuse.  But,  in  that  second,  while  she  faced  the  big 
musketeer  in  that  dingy  taproom,  she  seemed  to 
stand  in  her  own  chamber  at  Larkland,  in  the  fair 
days  before  ever  Will  Lowry  came,  and  she  seemed  to 
hear  Lady  Sybil  speak :  — 

"I  would  have  thee  more  than  a  man,  my  Merrylips. 
I  would  have  thee  a  gentleman." 

A  gentleman !  Surely  a  gentleman  would  not  deny 
the  cause  that  he  served,  no,  not  even  to  save  his  life ! 

Merrylips  breathed  fast.  She  felt  the  heart  leaping 
in  her  throat,  but  she  thought  of  Lady  Sybil. 

"I  cannot  drink  it,  sir!  I  will  not  drink!"  she 
cried,  and  let  the  can  fall  clattering  from  her  hold. 

"Will  not?"  the  fellow  shouted. 

She  felt  his  grasp  tighten  on  her  arm.     She  knew 


242  MERRYLIPS 

that  he  meant  to  strike  her.  But  before  the  blow  had 
time  to  fall,  Rupert  had  thrust  himself  in  front 
of  her. 

"Do  not  you  touch  him!"  he  cried  in  a  quavering 
voice.     "  'A  is  too  little !    Ye  shall  not  touch  him." 

"Let  the  brat  drink  that  pledge.  'Tis  a  good  pledge  ! " 
cried  one. 

"Faith,  you  shall  drink  it  yourself,  you  pestilence 
meddler!"  said  the  fellow  who  had  first  laid  hold  of 
Merrylips. 

He  turned  from  her  and  caught  Rupert  by  the  arm. 
Some  one  gave  him  a  cup  of  ale,  and  he  thrust  it  into 
Rupert's  hand. 

"Down  with  it!"  he  ordered.  "Drink!  To  the 
devil  wi'  false  King  Charles!" 

Rupert  had  talked  lightly  enough  of  how  he  should 
pass  himself  off  for  a  Roundhead.  But  now  that  the 
time  had  come,  he  hesitated.  Then  his  face  turned 
gray  and  set,  as  it  had  been  on  the  day  when  Lieutenant 
Digby  had  bidden  him  sing.. 

"Drink!"  the  Roundhead  bade  again. 

"I'll  see  you  dead  first!"  Rupert  cried.  "I  am  no 
rebel!" 

Merrylips  threw  her  arm  across  her  eyes.  In  very 
truth  she  thought  that  Rupert  would-  be  killed.  She 
heard  men  cry  out,  and  she  heard  them  laugh.     The 


She  stopped  and  across  the  rim  stared  at  the  man. 


IN  THE  ENEMY'S   CAMP  243 

sound  of  their  laughter  seemed  to  her  more  terrible 
than  any  threats. 

One  shouted,  "Make  him  drink  now!" 

Then  Rupert  cried  shrilly,  "Away  wi'  thee,  Merry- 
lips!    Run!    The  window!" 

Right  beside  Merrylips  a  casement  stood  open.  She 
looked  toward  it,  but  she  did  not  stir.  She  wondered 
how  Rupert  could  think  that  she  would  run  away  and 
leave  him. 

Beyond  the  casement  she  saw  the  sun  slanting  peace- 
fully upon  the  market-place,  and  through  the  sunlight 
she  saw  a  horseman  go  ambling.  He  wore  a  bandage 
round  his  head,  and  in  the  strong  light  his  chestnut 
hair  was  ruddy,  like  her  brother  Munn's. 

It  all  happened  in  a  second.  Before  the  noise  of 
laughter  and  Rupert's  shrill  cry  had  ceased,  she  had 
leaped  on  a  bench  beneath  the  window  and  cast  her- 
self over  the  sill.  She  fell  upon  the  cobbles  without. 
She  sprang  up  and  ran  stumbling  across  the  market- 
place. 

As  she  ran,  she  screamed.  She  heard  her  own  voice, 
thin,  like  a  voice  in  a  nightmare:  — 

"Dick  Fowell!  Oh,  Dick  Fowell!  Help!  Help! 
Help!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  FRIEND   IN  NEED 

For  a  long  time  after,  indeed  until  she  was  a  grown 
woman,  Merrylips  used  to  dream  of  that  run  across 
the  market-place.  She  would  wake  all  breathless  and 
trembling  with  fear  lest  she  might  not  reach  Dick 
Fowell. 

Truly  it  seemed  as  if  she  never  could  make  him  hear. 
He  was  riding  with  his  face  to  the  front,  headed  for 
the  street  that  led  upward  to  the  castle,  and  in  the  clatter 
of  his  horse's  hoofs  he  heard  no  other  sound. 

But  Merrylips  screamed  with  all  her  might,  and  the 
men  lounging  by  the  market-cross  raised  their  voices 
too,  and  some  idle  boys  took  up  the  cry.  Through 
the  haze  that  wavered  before  her  eyes,  she  saw  Fowell 
check  his  horse  and  turn  in  the  saddle.  She  reeled 
forward,  and  caught  and  clung  to  his  stirrup. 

"Rupert!  Rupert!"  she  wailed.  "They're  killing 
him  —  yonder  at  the  Spotted  Dog !  Oh,  they're 
killing  Rupert !" 

Somebody  snatched  her  out  of  harm's  way,  as  Dick 
Fowell  swung  his  horse  about.     She  saw  him  go  gal- 


A   FRIEND   IN   NEED  245 

loping  across  the  market-place,  and  she  staggered  aftel 
him.  She  felt  a  grasp  on  her  arm,  and  she  saw  that  it 
was  Kit  Woolgar  who  was  holding  her  up.  But  she  was 
past  being  surprised  or  frightened  at  anything. 

She  did  not  remember  how  she  had  crossed  the 
market-place.  She  was  at  the  door  of  the  Spotted 
Dog,  and  beside  it  she  saw  Dick  Fowell's  horse,  with 
the  saddle  empty  and  a  potboy  holding  the  bridle. 
She  was  stumbling  down  the  flagged  passage.  She 
had  pitched  into  the  taproom.  There,  on  a  bench,  in 
the  midst  of  the  little  group  of  musketeers,  who  were  far 
from  laughing  now,  sat  Dick  Fowell,  and  Rupert  leaned 
against  his  arm. 

Rupert  was  white  about  the  mouth,  and  he  had  one 
sleeve  torn  from  his  doublet.  He  was  drinking  from  a 
cup  that  Fowell  held  to  his  lips,  and  he  steadied  it 
with  a  hand  that  shook  a  great  deal.  Between  swal- 
lows he  caught  his  breath,  with  a  sobbing  sound. 

Merrylips  ran  to  his  side  and  threw  her  arms  about 
him. 

"I  thought  they  would  ha'  slain  thee!"  she  gasped. 

"They  did  —  no  such  thing!"  answered  Rupert, 
jerkily. 

He  shifted  himself  from  Dick  Fowell's  hold  and  sat 
up,  with  his  arm  about  her. 

"And  I  blacked — one  fellow's  eye  for  him  —  the 


246  MERRYLIPS 

scurvy  rogue !  And  I  didn't  —  drink  for  none  on  'emi 
And  we're  both  —  king's  men!"  he  ended,  lifting  his 
face  to  Dick  Fowell.  "And  you  can  hang  us  —  if 
you  will !  And  we're  not  afeard  !  And  God  save  the 
king!" 

"God  save  the  king!"  quavered  Merrylips. 

And  then  they  clung  to  each  other,  and  wondered 
what  would  happen  to  them. 

Kit  Woolgar  began  to  talk,  and  the  idlers  and  the 
tavern  folk,  who  had  crowded  into  the  room,  began  to 
question  and  exclaim.  But  Dick  Fowell  bade  them 
be  silent,  and  in  the  silence  he  spoke  briefly  to  the  mus- 
keteers. Merrylips  hoped  that  never  in  her  life  should 
she  be  spoken  to  by  any  one  in  a  voice  like  that.  When 
he  had  said  the  little  that  was  to  be  said  to  men  that 
found  their  sport  in  bullying  children,  he  dismissed 
them,  with  a  promise  to  speak  further  to  their 
captain. 

Then  Fowell  turned  to  Kit  Woolgar  and  bade  him 
tell  his  story.  And  Woolgar  told  how  he  had  taken 
up  the  two  children  at  Long  Wesselford,  and  how  they 
had  slipped  from  him,  and  all  the  false  tale  with  which 
they  had  cheated  him.  At  that  Merrylips  remembered 
how  kind  Polly  and  Kit  had  been,  and  how  she  and 
Rupert  had  deceived  them,  and  she  blushed  and  hung 
her  head  for  shame. 


A   FRIEND   IN   NEED  247 

"Truth,"   said  Fowell,  when  the  tale  was  ended, 

'I  must  be  that  kinsman  Smith  whom  these  young 

ones  sought  in  Ryeborough  —  eh,  Tibbott  Venner?" 

"You're  merry,  sir,"  replied  Woolgar.  "You're 
no  carabineer  in  my  lord's  troop.  You're  my  lord 
Caversham's  son,  and  well  I  know  your  honor." 

"In  any  case,"  said  Fowell,  "I'll  charge  me  with  the 
custody  of  these  two  arrant  king's  men." 

He  gave  Woolgar  money  for  his  pains  in  bringing 
the  children  thither.  Then  he  picked  Merrylips  up  in 
his  arms,  and  bidding  Rupert  follow,  walked  through 
the  midst  of  the  people  and  out  of  the  tavern.  There 
in  the  market-place  he  hailed  a  mounted  trooper  who 
was  passing. 

"Take  this  boy  up  behind  you,"  he  said,  pointing 
to  Rupert,  "and  follow  me  unto  the  castle." 

Then  he  set  Merrylips  on  his  own  horse  and  mounted 
behind  her.  In  such  fashion  they  all  four  headed  up 
the  narrow  street,  beyond  the  market-place,  that  led 
to  the  very  heart  of  the  rebel  stronghold. 

As  they  went,  Fowell  asked  Merrylips  to  tell  him 
truly  how  she  came  there,  and  she  told  him  everything: 
how  she  and  Rupert  had  been  sent  from  Monksfield 
to  save  their  lives  on  the  eve  of  the  last  assault ;  how 
they  had  failed  to  get  aid  at  King's  Slynton ;  how  they 
had  wandered  up  and  down  the  country ;  and  by  what 


248  MERRYLIPS 

bad  luck  they  had  been  sent  to  Ryeborough,  where  of 
all  places  in  the  world  they  least  wished  to  be. 

"And  we  ha'  walked  so  far,  and  fared  so  hard," 
she  ended  sorrowfully,  "and  now  here  we  be,  prisoners 
at  the  last." 

"Sure,  thou  dost  not  think  that  I  would  be  a  harsh 
jailer  unto  thee,  Tibbott?"  Fowell  asked. 

Merrylips  said  "No!"  but  her  voice  was  not  quite 
steady. 

This  fine  young  officer,  in  his  gay  coat,  with  his 
sword  swinging  at  his  side,  and  his  horse  prancing 
beneath  him,  was  very  different  from  the  broken, 
blood-stained  fellow  that  she  had  tended  in  the  wash- 
house  at  Monksfield.  She  could  not  be  quite  sure 
that  he  was  indeed  the  same  man  and  her  friend. 

It  was  useless  for  Dick  Fowell  to  try  to  set  her  at 
ease.  He  talked  of  things  that  he  thought  might 
interest  her.  He  told  how  he  had  been  sent  to  Rye- 
borough,  right  after  his  exchange,  to  mend  his  broken 
head.  He  told  her  good  news  of  her  friends  at  Monks- 
field. 

For  after  Colonel  Hatcher  had  assaulted  the  house 
for  two  days,  he  had  received  unlooked-for  orders  to 
make  terms  with  Captain  Norris,  so  that  he  might  be 
free  to  carry  his  Roundhead  soldiers  to  another  place, 
where  they  were  sorely  needed.     So  although  Colonel 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED  249 

Hatcher  had  taken  the  house,  he  had  taken  it  by  treaty, 
not  by  assault.  And  he  had  granted  honorable  terms 
to  Captain  Norris  and  let  him  go  away  with  his  followers 
into  the  west.  So  very  likely  many  of  Merrylips'  old 
friends  had  come  alive  and  unharmed  from  the  siege. 

But  even  this  good  news  Merrylips  only  half  lis- 
tened to.  She  was  gazing  up  at  the  vast  walls  under 
which  they  rode  and  the  gateways  through  which  they 
passed.  She  shivered  as  she  thought  how  like  a  prison 
was  this  great  castle  of  Ryeborough. 

Dick  Fowell  drew  rein  at  last  in  a  little  gravelled 
court,  in  front  of  a  great  house.  It  would  have  been 
a  pleasant  dwelling-place,  if  the  walls  of  the  castle 
had  not  hemmed  it  round  on  every  side.  A  serving- 
man  came  bustling  to  take  the  horse,  another  lifted 
Merrylips  to  the  ground,  and  as  Fowell  himself  dis- 
mounted, a  corporal  of  dragoons  hurried  forward  and 
spoke  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

Scarcely  had  Fowell  heard  three  sentences  when 
he  laughed  and  glanced  at  Merrylips. 

"Faith,"  said  he,  "this  falleth  pat  as  a  stage-play! 
You  say  yonder,  corporal?" 

The  man  nodded,  and  pointed  to  the  stone  gate- 
house by  which  they  had  entered  the  court. 

"Ten  minutes  hence,  then,"  bade  Fowell,  "send 
him  unto  me  in  the  long  parlor." 


250  MERRYLIPS 

When  he  had  dismissed  the  corporal,  Foweli  took 
Merrylips  by  the  hand,  and  motioned  to  Rupert  to 
walk  at  his  side. 

"Since  you  are  not  afraid  of  what  we  may  do  to  you," 
he  said,  smiling  down  at  Rupert. 

Neither  Rupert  nor  Merrylips  felt  much  like  smiling, 
but  they  went  obediently  whither  they  were  led.  They 
entered  the  great  house,  and  found  themselves  in  a 
dim  entrance  hall,  where  one  or  two  lackeys  were 
loitering,  and  a  trooper  in  muddy  boots  stood  waiting 
on  the  hearth.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  hall  was  a 
door,  and  when  Foweli  had  brought  them  to  it,  he 
halted  them  on  the  threshold. 

"Now  wait  you  here  like  good  lads  for  one  minute," 
he  said,  "and  seek  not  to  run  away  a  second  time, 
for  I  am  not  Kit  Woolgar." 

He  smiled  as  he  said  this,  but  there  was  something 
in  his  eyes  that  made  even  Rupert  think  it  would  not 
be  well  to  disobey  him. 

So  Rupert  and  Merrylips  stood  waiting,  while  Dick 
Foweli  went  into  the  next  room.  He  left  the  door  ajar 
behind  him,  and  they  could  not  help  hearing  something 
of  what  was  said  inside. 

Almost  at  once  they  heard  a  woman  cry  indig- 
nantly :  — 

"Art  thou   stark  mad,   Dick?    To  think  that   I, 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED  25 1 

forsooth,  would  look  upon  a  brace  of  wretched  malig- 
nants  that  thou  hast  taken  prisoner !  Why  hast  thou 
brought  such  fellows  hither?  Is  thy  father's  house 
to  be  made  a  bridewell?" 

Then  they  caught  the  murmur  of  Fowell's  words 
but  not  their  sense,  and  after  that  they  heard  a  girl's 
voice  say :  — 

"Sure,  Dick  must  have  reason  for  this  that  he  doth 
ask." 

Then  another  merry  young  voice  struck  in :  — 

"Are  these  prisoners  of  thine  very  desperate  rogues 
to  look  on,  Dick?" 

"Why,"  said  Fowell,  slowly,  "they've  neither  of 
them  shaved  for  some  days,  and  they're  travel- stained, 
and  ragged  thereto,  yet  I'll  go  bail  they  will  not  fright 
you  sorely.     Shall  I  bid  them  in,  good  mother?" 

A  nod  of  assent  must  have  been  given,  for  next 
minute,  though  no  word  had  been  spoken,  Fowell 
pushed  the  door  wide. 

"Come  you  in,  you  two  desperate  malignants!" 
he  said,  and  his  eyes  were  dancing  with  the  jest  that 
he  was  playing  upon  his  mother. 

Rupert  and  Merrylips  stole  quietly  into  the  room. 
It  was  a  long  parlor,  with  lozenge-shaped  panes  in  the 
windows  and  faded  tapestry  upon  the  walls.  Mid- 
way of  the  room,  by  a  cheery  fire,  sat  a  portly,  middle- 


252  MERRYLIPS 

aged  gentlewoman  in  a  gown  of  silk  tabby.  Near  hei 
two  young  girls,  with  chestnut  hair,  were  busy  with 
embroidery  frames. 

At  sight  of  the  two  children  all  three  exclaimed  aloud. 

"Dick,   thou  varlet!"   cried   the  old   gentlewoman. 

"Are  these  your  ruffian  Cavaliers?"  said  the  elder, 
and  taller,  of  the  two  girls. 

But  the  younger,  a  sweet,  rosy  lass,  of  much  the  same 
age  as  Merrylips'  own  sister  Puss,  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  "'tis  surely  the  little  lad  whereof 
Dick  told  us  —  the  child  that  tended  him  that  black 
night  at  Monksfield.  Oh,  mother!  Look  at  his 
shoes,  all  worn  to  rags!     Oh,  poor  little  sweetheart!" 

She  came  straight  to  Merrylips,  and  bent  and  would 
have  kissed  her,  but  Merrylips  threw  up  her  elbow, 
just  like  a  bad-mannered  little  boy.  Somehow,  before 
these  folk,  who  were  gentlewomen,  like  her  godmother, 
she  felt  ashamed  of  her  boy's  dress,  as  she  had  never 
been  among  men,  and  she  longed  to  hide  her  head. 

While  Merrylips  stood  shrinking  at  Rupert's  side, 
she  saw  that  Fowell  whispered  something  to  the  older 
girl,  who  laughed  aloud. 

"Verily,  thou  art  a  gallant  master  of  revels,  Dick!" 
she  cried,  and  in  her  turn  came  rustling  to  Merrylips. 

"If  thou  wilt  kiss  me,  master,"  she. said,  "I  will  tell 
thee  something  should   please   thee  mightily.     Guess 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED  253 

whom  thou  shalt  see  this  hour  —  ay,  this  moment  \ 
And  thank  my  brother  for't." 

Merrylips  peered  over  her  elbow  at  Dick  Fowell. 

"Oh,  surely,"  she  faltered,  "'tis  never — " 

"Did  I  not  tell  thee  I'd  requite  thy  kindness,  Tib- 
bott?"  said  Dick  Fowell.  "Look  yonder,  laddie, 
and  tell  me  have  I  kept  my  word  ? " 

Merrylips  saw  the  door  to  the  parlor  swing  open. 
For  a  moment  she  dared  not  look.  She  was  afraid  that 
he  who  entered  might  not  be  the  one  whom  with  all 
her  heart  she  prayed  that  she  might  see. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

TO   PUT   IT   TO   THE   TOUCH 

At  last  Merrylips  gathered  courage  to  look.  Then 
she  saw  that  just  inside  the  door  stood  a  young  man, 
who  blinked  as  if  he  had  newly  come  from  a  dark  place. 

He  looked  worn  and  tired.  He  seemed  to  have  slept 
in  his  clothes.  His  coat,  an  old  one,  was  too  big  for 
him,  and  his  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  his  face  un- 
shaven. But  for  all  his  sorry  attire  and  his  altered  face, 
Merrylips  knew  him. 

"Munn!     Oh,  my  brother  Munn!"  she  cried. 

She  flew  across  the  room  and  cast  her  two  arms  about 
the  young  man,  who  caught  her  to  him  and  crushed  her 
in  a  grip  that  fairly  hurt. 

"Merrylips!"  he  said  in  a  shaky  voice.  '"Tis 
never  Merrylips !  How  comest  thou  here  ?  Why  art 
thou    still   in   that   dress — " 

"I  promised!"  Merrylips  answered.  "I  told  no 
one,  save  only  Rupert.  I  kept  my  promise,  indeed 
I  kept  it,  Munn!" 

If  Munn  had  been  younger,  Merrylips  would  have 

254 


TO  PUT  IT  TO  THE  TOUCH  255 

thought  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  looked 
down  at  her. 

"All  these  days,"  he  said  slowly,  "among  men  — 
and  used  as  a  boy  —  and  through  my  blame !  Merry- 
lips,  thou  poor  little  wench  !" 

"Come,  come,  Venner!"  Dick  Fowell's  voice  struck 
in,  as  he  bent  over  the  two.  "Sure,  man,  your  days 
in  prison  have  clouded  your  wits.  Do  you  not  know 
your  own  brother,  Tibbott?" 

"Brother?"  retorted  Munn,  in  a  high  tone  that 
sounded  like  his  old  self.  "'Tis  you  are  crazed,  sir. 
This  is  my  young  sister,  Sybil  Venner." 

Now  if  ever  a  young  man  who  enjoyed  surprising 
other  folk,  was  neatly  served,  that  young  man  was 
Lieutenant  Dick  Fowell.  He  stared  at  Merrylips, 
and  rubbed  his  forehead,  as  if  he  could  trust  neither 
his  eyes  nor  his  ears. 

The  elder  of  the  two  girls  broke  into  laughter  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Dick,  thou  shalt  never  hear  the  last  of  this!" 
she  cried. 

But  the  other  girl  looked  at  Merrylips,  and  she  seemed 
ready  to  weep. 

"Poor  little  lass!"  she  murmured. 

Then  up  stood  Lady  Caversham,  in  her  gown  of 
silk  tabby. 


256  MERRYLIPS 

"Give  that  child  unto  me !"  she  said. 

She  came  across  the  room  and  without  asking  leave 
of  any  one,  took  Merrylips  out  of  Munn's  arms. 

Merrylips  found  herself  sitting  in  Lady  Caversham's 
lap,  in  a  great  chair  by  the  hearth.  The  blaze  of  the 
fire  winked  and  blurred  through  the  tears  that  came 
fast  to  her  eyes  —  why,  she  could  not  tell. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  Munn  told  you.  I'm 
wearied  o'  being  a  boy.     I'm  a  little  girl  —  a  girl!" 

With  that  she  dropped  her  head  on  Lady  Caversham's 
kind  breast  and  cried  as  in  all  her  life  she  had  never 
cried  before. 

When  Merrylips  next  took  note  of  what  went  on 
round  her,  the  younger  girl  was  kneeling  by  her  and 
loosing  the  broken  shoes  from  her  feet.  The  older 
girl  was  hovering  near  with  a  cup  of  wine,  and  as  for 
good  Lady  Caversham,  in  the  pauses  of  soothing  Merry- 
lips as  if  she  were  a  baby,  she  was  scolding  Munn. 
Munn  looked  puzzled,  and  Dick  Fowell,  who  stood 
near  him,  had  for  once  not  a  single  word  to  say. 

"Had  you  no  wit  at  all?"  said  Lady  Caversham  to 
Munn.  "Hush  thee,  precious  child!"  she  spoke  in 
quite  a  different  tone  to  Merrylips.  "To  set  this  poor 
little  tender  maid  in  boy's  dress  and  cast  her  among 
rude  men !  'Tis  all  well  now,  poor  little  heart ! 
Whilst  you  went  about  your  riotous  pleasures  —  " 


TO   PUT   IT  TO   THE  TOUCH  257 

At  that  Dick  Fowell  and  Munn  exchanged  nervous 
grins.  Lady  Caversham  was  a  good  woman,  but  sorely 
misinformed,  if  she  thought  riotous  pleasures  were  to 
be  found  in  a  Roundhead  prison. 

"No  man  can  say  what  harm  might  have  befallen 
her,"  Lady  Caversham  went  on.  "Cry,  if  'twill  ease 
thee,  sweeting,  but  thou  hast  now  no  cause  to  weep ! 
If  you  were  son  of  mine,  sirrah,  I  would  cause  you  to 
repent  this  piece  of  stark  folly.  Come,  honey,  'tis 
rest  and  quiet  thou  dost  need." 

Up  got  Lady  Caversham,  with  Merrylips  still  clasped 
in  her  arms. 

"Let  me  take  him,  mother,"  offered  Dick  Fowell. 
"Her,  I  should  say." 

Lady  Caversham  waved  him  aside. 

"Methinks  she  hath  been  left  long  enough  to  the 
tendance  of  men,"  she  said.  "And  blind  as  an  owl 
thou  must  have  been,  Son  Dick,  not  to  have  known  her 
for  a  little  maid." 

So  Merrylips  was  borne  away.  She  would  have 
been  glad  to  speak  further  with  her  brother  Munn,  but 
she  felt  too  tired  to  ask  that  favor.  She  let  herself  be 
carried  to  an  upper  chamber,  and  there  she  was  un- 
dressed and  bathed  and  wrapped  in  fresh  linen  and 
laid  in  a  soft  bed. 

When  she  was  cosey  among  the  pillows,  the  oldei 


258  MERRYLIPS 

girl,  Betteris,  brought  her  a  goblet  of  warm  milk,  and 
the  younger  girl,  Allison,  fed  her  with  morsels  of  white 
bread  and  of  roasted  chicken.  They  would  scarcely 
let  the  waiting-women  touch  her.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  could  not  do  enough  for  the  little  girl  who  in  pity 
had  helped  their  brother  Dick  in  his  time  of  need. 

Merrylips  felt  sure  that  now  all  would  be  well  with 
her,  and  with  Rupert,  and  with  Munn.  So  she  fell 
gently  asleep,  and  when  she  woke,  the  sunlight  was 
shining  in  the  room. 

Allison  and  Betteris  came  in  to  see  her  soon.  When 
they  found  her  awake,  Allison  brought  her  bread  and 
honey,  and  milk  to  drink.  She  told  her,  while  she  ate, 
that  a  gown  was  being  made  for  her  from  one  that  was 
her  own,  and  to-morrow,  when  it  was  ready,  she  should 
rise  and  dress  and  run  about  once  more. 

While  Allison  was  talking,  Betteris  came  into  the 
chamber  again,  and  with  her  was  Munn.  Only  he 
was  now  clean  and  shaven  and  wore  a  coat  of  Dick 
Fowell's  and  a  fresh  shirt,  so  that,  for  all  that  his  face 
was  thinner  than  it  used  to  be,  he  looked  himself 
again. 

Presently  the  two  young  girls  stole  from  the  room, 
and  Merrylips  and  Munn  were  left  together.  What 
a  talk  they  had,  while  he  sat  upon  the  bed  and  held  her 
two  hands  fast,  as  if  he  were  afraid  to  let  her  go ! 


TO   PUT   IT  TO  THE  TOUCH  259 

Munn  told  Merrylips  how  he  and  Stephen  Plasket 
had  been  made  prisoners  at  Loxford,  and  how  troubled 
he  had  been  for  her,  when  he  thought  about  her,  there 
at  Monksfield,  with  never  a  friend  to  help  her.  In  the 
hope  of  getting  to  her,  he  and  Stephen  had  tried  to 
escape,  when  they  were  being  taken  under  guard  to 
London.  Stephen  had  got  away,  but  he  himself  had 
been  retaken.  After  that  he  had  been  closely  guarded, 
and  not  over- tenderly  treated,  Merrylips  guessed,  but 
of  that  part  Munn  would  not  speak. 

Then  he  told  her  how  puzzled  he  had  been,  when 
an  order  came  to  the  prison  where  he  had  been  placed 
that  he  should  be  sent  to  Ryeborough.  He  confessed 
that  he  had  been  much  afraid  lest  he  should  be  brought 
before  Will  Lowry,  and  made  to  answer  for  carrying 
off  Merrylips  and  using  Herbert  so  roughly. 

In  that  fear  he  had  passed  several  unhappy  hours, 
a  prisoner  in  the  gatehouse  of  Ryeborough  castle.  And 
then  he  had  been  ordered  into  the  long  parlor,  and  there 
he  had  found  Merrylips. 

"A.  rare  fright  Lieutenant  Fowell  set  me  in,  with  all 
this  precious  mystery,"  Munn  grumbled.  "But  of  a 
truth  I  owe  him  too  much  to  grudge  that  he  should 
have  his  sport.  For  he  is  right  friendly,  thanks  to  his 
old  comradeship  with  Longkin  and  the  affection  that 
he  hath  to  the  little  lad  he  thought  thee.    So  he  holdeth 


260  MERRYLIPS 

me  here,  a  prisoner  on  parole,  and  through  my  lord 
Caversham  thinketh  soon  to  give  me  in  exchange  for 
one  of  their  own  officers." 

In  her  turn  Merrylips  told  Munn  all  her  adventures 
and  all  the  kindness  that  she  had  met  with  at  Monks- 
field.  She  told  him  everything,  except  the  greatest 
thing  of  all  —  that  Rupert  was  nephew  to  Lady  Sybil 
Fernefould. 

For  when  Merrylips  spoke  Rupert's  name,  and  asked 
how  he  fared,  and  why  was  he  not  come,  too,  to  speak 
with  her,  Munn  stiffened  a  little.  In  a  careless  voice 
he  said :  — 

"That  little  horseboy,  Hinkel?  Ay,  to  be  sure,  he 
hath  served  thee  fairly.  A  brisk  lad,  no  doubt !  Our 
father  will  reward  him  handsomely." 

So  Merrylips  said  no  more  about  Rupert.  But 
after  Munn  had  left  her,  she  thought  about  him.  She 
wondered,  with  a  sinking  heart,  if  indeed  Rupert  had 
been  in  the  right,  when  he  had  said  it  would  be  hard 
work  to  make  the  grown  folk  believe  his  story. 

While  she  lay  wondering,  and  perhaps  dozing  a 
little,  in  bustled  pretty  Betteris  Fowell. 

"Art  waking,  Tibbott-Merrylips  ? "  she  cried. 
"Then  art  thou  well  enough  to  rise  ?  Here's  my  father  is 
fain  to  have  a  sight  of  the  little  maid  that  footed  it,  like 
a  little  lad,  from  Monksfield  unto  Ryeborough." 


TO   PUT   IT  TO  THE  TOUCH  26 1 

"But  I've  no  clothes,"  Merrylips  said  sadly,  for 
indeed  she  longed  to  get  up. 

"And  so  said  my  sister  Allison  and  my  lady  mother," 
Betteris  replied.  "But  my  father  said  surely  thy 
boy's  dress  was  seemly  to-day  as  it  was  yesterday, 
and  vowed  he'd  see  thee  in  that  same  attire.  So  up 
with  thee,  and  be  a  lad  again  !" 

Now  that  she  was  well  rested,  Merrylips  thought  it 
would  be  sport  to  be  a  boy  once  more,  for  a  little  while. 
She  scrambled  laughing  from  the  bed,  and  as  if  it  were 
a  masking  frolic,  she  dressed,  with  Betteris  to  help  her. 
She  put  on  a  little  clean  smock  and  stockings,  and  the 
ruddy  brown  doublet  and  breeches.  They  had  been 
neatly  brushed,  so  that  they  did  not  look  so  much  like 
the  clothes  of  a  beggar  child.  Last  of  all,  she  put  on 
her  warlike  little  leather  jerkin,  and  then  she  felt  herself 
a  lad  again. 

Quite  gallantly,  Merrylips  left  the  chamber  at  Bet- 
teris's  side,  but  on  the  staircase  she  paused. 

"Where  is  Rupert?"  she  said.  "For  'twas  Rupert 
brought  us  hither.  He  found  the  way,  and  won  us 
food,  and  was  brave  when  the  soldiers  did  affright  us. 
Surely,  my  lord,  your  father,  is  more  eager  to  see  Rupert 
than  to  look  on  me." 

At  first  Betteris  seemed  likely  to  laugh  and  say  nay, 
but  when  she  looked  at  Merrylips'  earnest  little  face, 
she  changed  her  mind. 


262  MERRYLIPS 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wilt,"  she  said,  and  bent  and 
kissed  her. 

So  they  waited  in  the  hall,  while  a  servant  fetched 
Rupert  from  the  kitchen.  He  came  almost  at  once, 
and  he  was  clean  and  brushed  and  had  new  shoes, 
but  he  was  shyer  and  more  sullen  than  Merrylips  re- 
membered him.  He  did  not  even  offer  to  take  her 
hand. 

Betteris  led  them  to  an  open  door.  Beyond  it  stood 
a  screen  of  carved  wood. 

"My  father  sitteth  yonder  at  dinner,"  she  said. 
"Come  thy  ways  in,  Merrylips,  and  fear  not,  for  he 
is  a  kind  soul." 

And  then  she  added,  in  a  little  different  tone,  to 
Rupert :  — 

"Come  you,  too,  boy!" 

Rupert  hung  back. 

"My  lord  doth  not  wish  to  see  me,"  he  muttered. 
"Let  me  be  gone  whence  I  came." 

"Why,  go,  an  thou  wilt,  sirrah,"  said  Betteris, 
lightly. 

But  Merrylips  caught  Rupert's  hand. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried.  "Rupert,  'tis  as  well  now 
as  any  time,  since  she  doth  say  my  lord  is  kind.  Oh, 
Rupert,  come  with  me,  and  we  will  tell  him  who  thou 
art,  and  haply  he  will  believe  us." 


TO   PUT  IT  TO  THE  TOUCH  263 

"Dost  thou  dare?"  said  Rupert,  breathlessly. 

In  Merrylips'  eyes  he  saw  that  indeed  she  did  dare. 
So  he  too  lifted  his  head,  and  they  walked  bravely  into 
Lord  Caversham's  presence. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AT  LORD  CAVERSHAM'S  TABLE 

As  soon  as  Merrylips  had  passed  beyond  the  carved 
screen,  she  was  sorry  for  her  rash  promise.  She  did 
not  wish  to  tell  Rupert's  story,  then  and  there.  For 
she  found  herself  in  a  great  vaulted  room,  where  serving- 
men  moved  softly  to  and  fro,  and  at  a  long  table,  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  was  seated  what  seemed  to 
her  a  great  company. 

Lady  Caversham  was  there,  and  Allison,  and  Dick 
Fowell,  and  a  young  man  so  like  him  that  he  must  be 
a  brother,  and  Munn,  and  a  gentleman  in  a  chaplain's 
dress,  and  two  other  gentlemen,  who  seemed  rebel 
officers.  But  though  Merrylips  was  startled  by  the 
sight  of  all  these  people,  she  forgot  them  in  a  second, 
when  she  looked  at  the  head  of  the  table,  for  there  sat 
the  man  who  she  knew  must  be  Lord  Caversham. 

His  Lordship,  the  Roundhead  governor  of  Rye- 
borough,  was  not  at  all  the  lank,  close -cropped  churl 
that  Merrylips'  friends  at  Monksfield  would  have 
made  her  believe.  He  was  a  burly,  broad-shouldered 
gentleman,  with  iron-gray  hair,  which  he  wore  as  long 

264 


AT  LORD  CAVERSHAM'S  TABLE  265 

as  any  Cavalier,  and  warlike  mustachios.  His  doub- 
let was  of  murry- colored  velvet,  and  his  linen  of  the 
finest.  Indeed,  he  looked  like  any  great  English  gentle- 
man, as  he  sat  at  his  ample  table,  with  his  family  and 
his  friends  about  him. 

While  Merrylips  noted  all  this  and  dared  to  hope 
that  his  Lordship  might  indeed  prove  kind,  Betteris 
spoke  aloud :  — 

"An't  like  you,  sir,  here  is  a  young  gentleman  who 
is  much  at  your  service." 

It  was  she  that  was  spoken  of,  Merrylips  knew. 
She  saw  that  all  were  looking  at  her.  She  did  not  think 
it  proper  to  courtesy,  while  she  wore  those  clothes,  so 
she  stood  up  straight  and  saluted,  as  she  had  done  at 
Monksfield. 

She  saw  the  men  at  table  smile,  and  heard  Lady 
Caversham  murmur,  "Dear  heart!" 

She  saw,  too,  that  Munn  was  watching  her  with  a 
warning  look  to  make  sure  that  she  bore  herself  as 
became  a  little  sister  of  his.  So  she  remembered  to 
be  neither  too  bold  nor  too  timid,  but  like  a  little  gentle- 
man went  to  Lord  Caversham,  when  he  called  her,  and 
let  him  draw  her  to  his  side. 

"Indeed  thou  art  a  little  one!"  said  the  Roundhead 
lord.  "And  thou  hast  walked  that  weary  distance 
from  Monksfield  unto  this  town?" 


266  MERRYLIPS 

"Ay,  my  lord,"  she  said. 

She  was  a  little  startled  to  find  that  all  sat  silent  and 
listened  to  her. 

"But  indeed,"  she  hastened  to  add,  "'twas  Rupert 
planned  all  for  us  both,  and  was  right  brave,  and  kind 
unto  me." 

"So!  'Twas  Rupert,  eh?"  His  Lordship  smiled 
upon  her.  "And  this  is  Rupert,  I  take  it.  Come 
here,  lad!" 

Rupert  came  as  he  was  bidden,  but  he  came  un- 
willingly. He  halted  at  Merrylips'  elbow,  and  kept 
his  eyes  cast  down,  while  he  plucked  at  the  hem  of  his 
worn  doublet.  Merrylips  knew  that  he  waited  for  her 
to  speak,  and  with  Munn  looking  on,  she  wondered  if 
she  dared. 

"You're  yourself  but  a  young  one,"  said  Lord 
Caversham,  in  a  kindly,  careless  voice.  "A  son  to 
one  of  the  troopers  in  the  Monksfield  garrison,  they 
tell  me." 

Rupert  looked  up. 

"No,  my  lord,"  he  said. 

Then  he  dared  say  no  more,  but  with  his  eyes  asked 
help  of  Merrylips.  And  she  gave  it.  Even  if  twenty 
Munns  had  sat  there,  she  would  have  given  help  in 
answer  to  such  a  look. 

"Please  you,  my  lord,"  she  spoke  out  bravely,  and 


AT  LORD  CAVERSHAM'S  TABLE  267 

took  Rupert's  hand  in  hers,  "he  is  no  common  trooper's 
lad.  His  true  name  is  called  Robert  Lucas,  and  he  is 
son  to  an  English  gentleman,  one  Captain  Edward 
Lucas  that  died  long  since  in  camp  in  High  Germany." 

She  had  to  stop  then  to  draw  breath,  and  she  heard 
Munn  cry  sharply :  — 

"Merrylips !  Good  faith,  where  got  you  that  crack- 
brained  story?" 

Then  Munn  added,  more  calmly:  — 

"Believe  me,  my  lord  Caversham,  that  boy  yon- 
der is  a  son  or  nephew  or  the  like  to  one  of  mine  own 
troopers,  a  Saxon  fellow  named  Hinkel,  and  known  as 
such  to  all  the  Monksfield  garrison." 

"Oh,  but  indeed  thou  art  mistaken,  Munn,"  pleaded 
Merrylips. 

She  could  not  keep  her  voice  from  shaking.  For 
all  those  faces  that  had  looked  so  kindly  on  her  had  now 
grown  doubtful  and  impatient,  and  she  was  half  afraid. 
But  still  she  went  on :  — 

"  Rupert  is  truly  son  to  Captain  Lucas  and  to  Lady 
Venetia  that  was  my  godmother's  sister,  and  he  hath 
a  ring  — " 

"So  you  say,  boy,  those  were  your  parents'  names?" 
Lord  Caversham  asked  sternly. 

Rupert  now  was  facing  him  steadily  enough. 

"My  lord — "  he  began. 


268  MERRYLIPS 

Then  for  a  moment  he  hesitated.  Indeed  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  claim  the  kindred  that  Merrylips 
had  said  was  surely  his !  But  he  had  to  speak  the  truth, 
and  he  did  it  bravely. 

"I  know  not  the  name  of  my  father  nor  my  mother," 
he  said.  "But  my  nurse  said  my  father's  name  was 
Lucas,  and  he  was  a  captain,  and  the  rest  —  Merrylips 
knew  the  rest  and  told  it  unto  me." 

"Why,  this  is  rare!"  cried  Dick  Fowell,  and  he 
seemed  angrier  even  than  Munn  himself.  "Here's 
a  complete  trickster  for  so  young  a  lad !  So,  you, 
sirrah,  you've  drained  that  little  girl  dry,  and  from  her 
prattle  have  patched  up  this  story  of  your  great  kin 
with  which  to  cozen  us." 

The  chaplain  said  that  Rupert  were  best  confess  at 
once  that  he  was  telling  a  false  story.  Dick  Fowell's 
brother  swore  that  such  a  young  liar  deserved  a  whip- 
ping. Munn  Venner,  who  was  as  loud  as  any,  vowed 
that  such  a  tale,  of  a  lost  child  of  Lady  Venetia's,  was 
too  strange  for  belief.  And  all  the  time  Merrylips  and 
Rupert  held  each  other  fast  by  the  hand  and  wondered 
•vhat  they  should  say  next. 

But  in  the  midst  of  this  clamor,  Lord  Caversham 
himself  spoke  out. 

"When  you  lads  are  older,"  said  he,  —  and  even  in 
her  distress,  Merrylips  wondered  to  hear  Dick  Fowell 


On  his  bared  chest  was  a  red  mark  like  a  fresh  cut. 


AT  LORD  CAVERSHAM'S  TABLE  269 

and  her  brother  Munn  called  "lads,"  —  "you'll  know 
that  the  stranger  a  story  sound,  the  likelier  it  is  to  be 
the  truth." 

While  Lord  Caversham  spoke,  he  put  his  arm  about 
Rupert  and  drew  him  down  to  sit  upon  his  knee.  At 
this  treatment  Rupert  stiffened  and  grew  red,  for  he 
was  not  pleased  at  being  handled  like  a  little  boy. 

"Put  back  the  shirt  from  your  shoulder,"  my  lord 
bade. 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  made  Rupert 
obey  in  haste.  He  put  back  his  shirt,  with  shaking 
fingers.  Merrylips  stood  near  enough  to  see  that  on 
his  bared  chest  was  a  red  mark  like  a  fresh  cut.  And 
yet  she  knew  that  Rupert  had  not  recently  been  hurt. 

"Enough!"  said  Lord  Caversham.  "And  you  can 
sit  quiet,  my  boy,  for  I've  held  you  in  my  arms  before 
this  day,  my  godson,  Robert  Lucas." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

NEWS   FROM  LONDON 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  rest  of  the  dinner  went  that 
day  untasted  from  Lord  Caversham's  table.  For  all 
who  sat  at  the  board  forgot  to  eat,  while  they  listened 
to  the  story,  a  strange  one  indeed,  that  my  lord  told, 
with  his  arm  about  Rupert's  shoulders. 

"  Thirteen  years  ago  come  Eastertide,"  said  my 
lord  Caversham,  "I  was  sent  upon  an  embassy  by  the 
Elector  Palatine,  whose  fortunes  I  followed,  unto  the 
Emperor  Ferdinand.  The  country  all  was  sore  dis- 
tressed with  war.  Armies  of  both  parties,  of  the  Em- 
peror and  of  the  Protestant  princes,  were  marching  to 
and  fro.  I  was  myself  stayed,  for  want  of  fitting  escort, 
at  a  town  called  Rodersheim,  upon  the  borders  of 
Bohemia. 

"While  I  lay  there,  a  battle  was  fought  beneath 
the  very  walls  of  the  town,  wherein  the  Emperor's 
troops  got  the  upper  hand,  but  suffered  heavy  loss. 
Their  wounded  men  were  brought  in  .sorry  state  into 
our  town,  which   speedily  was   rilled   to  overflowing. 

270 


NEWS  FROM  LONDON  27 1 

A  piteous  sight  it  was  to  see  those  poor  fellows  dying, 
more  than  one,  for  mere  lack  of  tendance ! 

"Now  when  night  was  falling  on  the  groaning  town, 
there  halted  at  my  door  a  rude  country  cart,  in  which 
lay  a  man  who  seemed  near  unto  death,  and  a  fair 
woman,  who  held  his  head  on  her  knees  and  wept  as 
one  distraught.  She  made  shift  to  tell  me  that  she 
was  born  Venetia  Fernefould,  daughter  to  his  Grace 
of  Barrisden,  and  that  the  man  she  tended  was  her 
husband,  Edward  Lucas,  a  captain  in  the  Emperor's 
service. 

"She  had  been  with  him  on  this  expedition,  and 
when  the  battle  was  over,  she  had  sought  and  found 
him  amid  the  slain.  She  had  given  all  that  she  had  to 
some  country  folk  to  fetch  him  in  that  poor  cart  unto 
the  town.  But  now  that  she  had  brought  him  thither,  she 
could  find  neither  roof  to  shelter  him,  nor  surgeon  to 
dress  his  hurt.  So  she  had  sought  me,  as  a  fellow- 
countryman,  and  she  prayed  me,  in  the  name  of 
our  common  English  blood,  to  give  her  husband 
succor. 

"Thus  Captain  Lucas  and  Lady  Venetia,  his  wife, 
found  harborage  in  my  quarters.  He  was  sore  wounded 
indeed,  with  a  great  sword  slash  in  the  breast  and 
shoulder,  yet  against  all  expectation  he  made  a  happy 
recovery.     This  was  thanks  partly  to  his  own  great 


272  MERRYLIPS 

vigor,  and  more,  perhaps,  to  the  loving  care  that  his 
wife  spent  upon  him. 

"  While  Lucas  lay  upon  his  bed  of  sickness,  his  son 
was  born,  there  in  my  quarters.  I  myself,  as  nearest 
friend  to  the  poor  parents,  had  him  christened  and 
called  him  Robert,  and  stood  sponsor  for  him.  'Twas 
in  those  days  I  saw  the  red  mark  on  his  breast  and 
shoulder  —  the  seal  that  his  birth  had  set  upon  the  lad, 
as  it  seemeth  now,  for  his  later  happiness 

"Now  when  my  godson  was  a  month  old,  Captain 
Lucas  was  well  recovered.  He  went  his  way  with  his 
wife  and  child,  and  I  went  mine  upon  my  embassy, 
and  never  again  did  I  set  eyes  on  any  of  the  three  until 
this  hour.  For  though  much  kindness  had  been  be- 
tween us  and  affection,  —  for  Lucas  was  a  gallant 
fellow,  and  his  wife  was  one  to  win  all  hearts,  —  yet 
so  distracted  was  the  country  that  there  was  little  send- 
ing of  letters,  or  hope  that  friend  might  hear  from  friend. 

'"Twas  only  through  roundabout  channels  that  I 
learned,  near  two  years  later,  that  Lucas  and  his  sweet 
lady,  who  was  ever  at  his  side,  had  perished  months 
before  of  a  fever  that  had  swept  their  camp.  And  I 
made  no  doubt  but  that  their  little  child  had  died  with 
them." 

By  this  time,  if  Merrylips  had  been  any  but  a  sweet- 
tempered  little  girl,  she  would  have  been  almost  jealous 


NEWS  FROM   LONDON  273 

of  Rupert.  For  her  own  adventures  had  quite  paled 
beside  this  story  of  Captain  Lucas's  son,  who  had  been 
so  many  years  lost  and  was  now  so  strangely  found. 
She  stood  almost  unheeded  by  Lord  Caversham's 
chair,  while  the  men  asked  Rupert  questions,  as  if 
they  were  ready  to  believe  him,  at  last. 

Thus  encouraged,  Rupert  told  Lord  Caversham  all 
that  he  had  told  Merrylips,  on  that  bleak  day  among 
the  willows,  and  showed  the  ring  that  had  been  his 
mother's.  And  then  Merrylips  was  bidden  show  her 
ring,  and  tell  all  that  she  had  learned  of  the  Lady 
Venetia's  story. 

"Mark  it  well,"  said  Lord  Caversham,  when  all  had 
been  told.  "The  lady's  English  kinsfolk  knew  only 
of  two  children  of  hers,  that  were  dead  in  infancy. 
They  had  been  told  no  word  of  the  birth  of  this  third 
child.  No  doubt  letters  were  sent,  and  in  the  chances 
of  war  were  lost.  So  there  was  none  to  seek  and  find 
this  little  waif,  when  his  parents  were  taken  from  him. 

"And  when  he  came  into  England,  a  mere  child, 
with  no  friend  to  help  him  save  a  thick-witted  trooper 
who  could  scarce  speak  the  English  tongue,  small 
wonder  there  was  none  to  listen  to  him !  Of  a  truth, 
godson,"  he  ended,  "'twas  a  happy  wind  that  blew 
thee  unto  Ryeborough !  I  mistrust  I  am  the  only 
man  in  England,  —  nay.  in  all  the  world,  perchance, 


274  MERRYLIPS 

—  that  could  piece  together  thy  story  and  say  with 
certainty  that  thou  art  thy  father's  son." 

Then  at  last  Lord  Caversham  let  Rupert  rise  from 
his  knee,  but  he  still  kept  his  hand  upon  him. 

"Thou  art  a  good  lad  of  thine  inches,  Robert,"  said 
he,  and  then  his  eyes  began  to  laugh,  with  just  the  trick 
that  Dick  FowelPs  eyes  had. 

"Look  you,"  he  spoke,  "now  that  my  Dick  is  grown, 
I  need  a  young  lad  to  sit  at  my  table  and  ride  at  my 
bridle-hand.  What  sayst  thou,  wife?  Shall  we  keep 
this  godson  of  mine  and  make  a  good  Parliament  man 
of  him?" 

Oh,  but  at  that  Rupert  backed  away  quickly  from 
my  lord,  and  grew  red  to  the  roots  of  his  hair ! 

"Ah,  but,  my  lord,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  king's  man, 
like  Merrylips  and  like   Cornet  Venner." 

For  the  first  time  Munn's  heart  seemed  to  warm 
toward  Rupert  at  those  words. 

"I  do  beseech  you,  my  lord,"  Munn  said,  "let  the 
boy  go  unto  the  Lady  Sybil  Fernefould,  who  is  now 
dwelling  in  my  father's  house  at  Walsover.  She  is 
blood -kin  to  the  lad,  his  own  aunt,  and  will  make  him 
welcome  unto  her,  I  dare  undertake." 

"Ay,  and  make  an  arrant  Cavalier  of  him,  like  all 
you  Venners,"  my  lord  answered.  "And  if  I  refuse, 
no  doubt,  Cornet  Venner,  you  will  steal  him  away  from 


NEWS  FROM   LONDON  275 

under  my  face  and  eyes,  as  you  did  your  young  sister 
here  from  Mr.  Lowry's  keeping." 

Perhaps  Munn  did  not  know  that  so  much  of  Merry- 
lips'  story  had  been  told  to  Dick  Fowell  and  his  sisters, 
and  through  them  had  reached  Lord  Caversham.  He 
grew  quite  red  and  flustered,  and  made  no  more  sug- 
gestions. 

For  a  moment  Merrylips  was  quite  alarmed.  She 
thought  that  now  that  their  only  champion  was  silenced, 
Rupert  would  indeed  be  kept  forever  at  Ryeborough 
castle.  But  she  found  that,  after  the  fashion  of  grown 
folk,  Lord  Caversham  was  only  jesting. 

"Dick,"  he  was  saying  next  instant,  quite  soberly, 
"what  sayst  thou  to  a  month's  leave  of  absence? 
'Twere  well  perhaps  that  thou  shouldst  go  down  into 
the  west  with  these  three  lads." 

Once  more  Merrylips  was  astonished  to  hear  Munn 
thus  lumped  with  her  and  Rupert,  as  if  he  were  but  a 
boy! 

"Thou  shalt  lay  open  all  the  matter,"  went  on  Lord 
Caversham,  "touching  this  boy's  birth  and  kinship, 
to  Sir  Thomas  Venner,  and  to  Lady  Sybil,  even  as  I 
would  do,  could  I  myself  go  thither.  And  haply  among 
the  men  that  survived  the  assault  of  Monksfield  they 
may  find  the  trooper  Hinkel,  to  tell  his  part  in  the  storVj_ 
For  though  this  youngster  might  find  it  hard  to  prove 


276  MERRYLIPS 

his  claim  to  the  name  of  Lucas  in  a  court  of  law,  'tis 
his  in  right  and  justice,  and  so  I  will  maintain.  And 
for  Ned  Lucas's  sake,  I  would  fain  see  the  child  acknowl- 
edged by  his  kinsfolk." 

"I'll  do  my  best  endeavor,  sir,"  Dick  Fowell  prom- 
ised. "So  soon  as  you  can  get  us  safe  conducts  and 
arrange  for  Cornet  Venner's  exchange,  we'll  be  off  for 
Walsover." 

At  that  Merrylips  longed  to  cry  "Hurrah!"  as 
Tibbott  Venner  would  have  done.  Indeed  her  face 
broke  into  smiles,  as  she  looked  at  Rupert,  and  then 
at  Lord  Caversham.  She  would  gladly  have  said  that 
she  was  much  beholden  to  him,  but  she  feared  to  be  too 
forward,  with  Munn  looking  on. 

But  Lord  Caversham  caught  her  eye.  He  was  just 
asking  kindly,  "  Wouldst  thou  say  aught  unto  me,  lad  ?" 
when  a  serving-fellow  came  to  his  side,  and  bent  and 
whispered,  and  laid  a  packet  in  his  hand. 

"A  messenger  post-haste  from  London,  eh?"  said 
Lord  Caversham. 

With  a  grave  face  of  business,  such  as  he  had  not 
yet  shown,  he  said,  "By  your  leaves!"  and  opened 
and  looked  upon  the  letters  that  lay  within  the  packet. 

When  he  glanced  up,  he  was  smiling  in  a  dry  fashion, 
as  if  he  were  but  one  part  mirthful  and  the  other  part 
vexed.    He  tossed  the  letters  on  the  table. 


NEWS   FROM   LONDON  277 

"Here's  like  to  be  a  merry  meeting  among  kindred  !" 
he  cried.  "Cornet  Venner,  you'll  be  blithe  to  know 
that  your  cousin,  Will  Lowry  of  Larkland,  is  riding 
hither,  as  fast  as  horse  can  bear  him." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WESTWARD  HO! 

At  the  mere  name  of  Will  Lowry,  Merrylips  for- 
got the  dress  that  she  wore  and  forgot  that  she  must  be 
brave  like  a  boy.  She  ran  to  her  brother  Munn,  and 
creeping  into  the  space  between  his  seat  and  Dick 
Fowell's,  clasped  her  arms  tight  about  his  neck. 

"Sure,  thou'lt  never  let  them  give  me  back  to  Mr. 
Lowry,  Munn  dear!"  she  begged.  "For  now  'twill 
be  worse  than  ever  at  Larkland  and  they  said  when  I 
was  grown,  I  must  marry  Herbert,  and  I  am  fain  to 
marry  no  one,  never,  and  least  of  all  Herbert,  that  is 
a  mean  coward.  Oh,  best  Munn,  prithee  say  that  Mr. 
Lowry  shall  not  take  me!    Say  it,  Munn!" 

Poor  Munn  !  He  would  have  been  more  than  glad  to 
have  said  it,  and  to  have  made  his  promise  good.  But 
in  a  moment  Merrylips  herself  realized  that  he  was 
powerless  to  help  her.  He  had  no  sword  to  wear  like 
the  other  gentlemen.     Even  as  herself  he  was  a  prisoner 

and  helpless  in  Lord  Caversham's  hands. 

278 


WESTWARD   HO!  279 

She  looked  beseechingly  at  Lord  Caversham.  But 
my  lord  sat  fingering  the  London  letter,  and  Dick 
Fowell  waited  in  silence  on  his  father's  pleasure.  They 
wasted  time,  while  she  was  sure  that  next  moment 
Will  Lowry  would  come  marching  in  and  carry  her 
back  to  Larkland. 

"Oh,  Munn!  Canst  thou  do  naught  to  help  me?" 
she  cried  in  a  heart-broken  voice,  and  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder. 

Then  for  the  second  time  that  portly  Lady  Caver- 
sham took  charge  of  Merrylips'  affairs.  She  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  came  and  laid  one  hand  on  Merrylips' 
head  and  the  other  on  Munn's  shoulder.  Now  that 
she  saw  how  troubled  he  was  for  his  little  sister,  she 
seemed  ready  to  forgive  him,  both  for  having  used  the 
child  so  carelessly  and  for  having  himself  fought  upon 
the  king's  side. 

"Have  no  fear,  Merrylips,"  she  said.  "For  thou 
shalt  go  unto  thy  kin  at  Walsover,  ay,  though  twenty 
Lowrys  were  fain  to  stay  thee.  I  promise  it,  and  there's 
an  end  on't." 

Munn  caught  my  lady's  hand  and  kissed  it,  and 
Merrylips  clung  to  her.  Eetween  laughing  and  crying 
she  tried  to  say  how  glad  she  was,  how  grateful  she 
should  always  be ! 

"Come,  little  heart,   and  we  will  hit  upon   some 


280  MERRYLIPS 

plan!"  bade  Lady  Caversham,  and  led  her  from  the 
room. 

As  Merrylips  went  with  her,  she  heard  Lord  Caver- 
sham say:  "  Nay,  if  thou  hast  undertaken  it,  my  wife, 
the  plan  is  already  as  good  as  found,  I  warrant  me! " 
and  he  laughed  as  he  said  it. 

Indeed,  matters  went  fast  in  the  next  hours,  under 
Lady  Caversham's  rule.  Merrylips  lay  in  bed  and 
rested,  against  a  long  journey.  Meantime,  Allison 
and  Betteris  flew  in  and  out,  and  brought  her  tidings, 
and  sweetmeats,  and  little  clothes,  which  they  tried 
upon  her,  and  then  snipped  and  stitched  to  suit  her 
figure.     But  all  the  little  clothes  were  boy's  clothes. 

"  And  am  I  never  to  be  a  girl  again  ?  "  asked  Merry- 
lips, rather  anxiously. 

Betteris  laughed  and  would  have  teased  her.  But 
gentle  Allison  made  haste  to  tell  her  why  the  grown 
folk  wished  her  still  to  wear  her  boy's  dress  and  keep 
her  boy's  name. 

"My  father  and  Mr.  Lowry,  though  not  friends, 
are  yet  hand  and  glove  in  much  business  that  per- 
taineth  to  the  cause  of  the  Parliament,"  said  Allison. 
"  So  'twere  most  unhappy,  for  divers  reasons,  if  a  breach 
were  made  between  them,  as  there  surely  would  be, 
were  Mr.  Lowry  to  find  that  his  little  ward  was  helped 
hence  by  my  father's  aid. 


WESTWARD  HO!  28 1 

"So  all  our  household  are  pledged  to  silence,  touching 
the  fact  that  Tibbott  Venner  is  in  truth  the  little  maid 
Sybil.  And  my  father  truly  can  say  that  he  never  saw 
thee,  save  in  boy's  dress  and  bearing  a  boy's  name. 
And  in  that  name  thy  safe  conduct  will  be  made  out, 
and  thou  shalt  ride  hence  Cornet  Venner' s  young 
brother,  upon  whom  Mr.  Lowry  hath  no  claim." 

"But  surely  when  he  seeth  me,  he  will  know  me, 
whatever  dress  I  wear,"  urged  Merrylips.  "And  he 
is  coming  hither  to  seek  me." 

"Nay,"  cried  Betteris,  "'tis  not  to  seek  thy  little 
self  that  Lowry  is  posting  hither.  He  cometh  on 
Parliament  business.  Perchance  thou  mightst  even 
bide  here,  and  he  not  spy  thee,  but  'tis  too  perilous  for 
us  to  venture  that.  So  to-morrow  morn,  when  Mr. 
Lowry  will  ride  in  at  the  east  gate,  as  his  letter  gave 
my  father  to  know,  thou  shalt  ride  out  at  the  west  gate, 
and  little  Robert  Lucas,  and  my  brother,  and  thine 
own  brother  shall  ride  with  thee.  For  my  father  will 
strain  a  point  and  set  thy  brother  free  on  his  own 
promise  not  to  bear  arms  till  an  exchange  may  duly  be 
arranged  for  him." 

But  for  all  that  was  said,  Merrylips  could  not  believe 
that  it  was  true  that  next  morning  she  should  set  out 
for  Walsover.  She  let  herself  be  fitted  with  the  brave 
new  clothes,  which  had  been  made  for  the  young  son 


282  MERRYLIPS 

of  one  of  my  lord's  officers.  The  doublet  and  breeches 
were  of  peacock  blue,  with  silver  buttons,  and  the  cloak 
was  lined  with  pale  blue  silk.  She  chatted  with  Dick's 
sisters,  and  ate  and  drank  what  was  brought  her.  But 
all  the  time  she  felt  as  if  she  were  moving  in  a  dream. 

It  was  like  a  dream,  too,  when  she  woke  in  the  chill, 
black  morning.  She  dressed  by  candlelight  in  the 
brave  new  clothes.  She  had  boot-hose,  and  a  plumed 
hat,  and  gloves  of  soft  leather,  all  complete.  Then  she 
went  down  the  long  stair,  at  Allison's  side,  into  the 
shadowy  hall,  and  there  she  met  with  dim  shapes, 
cloaked  and  booted,  that  she  knew  for  her  comrades. 
Here  were  Dick  Fowell,  and  Munn,  and  Rupert.  At 
first  -  she  scarcely  knew  Rupert,  for  he  was  a  gallant 
little  figure,  all  in  fine  new  clothes  of  a  deep  crimson  hue. 

She  drank  a  cup  of  steaming  posset.  She  said  fare- 
well to  Lady  Caversham,  and  to  Allison,  and  to  Betteris. 
Lord  Caversham  she  did  not  see  again,  for  prudently 
he  had  no  more  speech  with  the  sham  Tibbott  Venner. 

Then  she  trudged  forth  with  her  companions,  and 
was  mounted  on  a  horse,  a  little  horse  of  her  own, 
and  away  they  rode  from  Ryeborough  castle.  And 
as  she  felt  the  brisk  air  upon  her  face  and  saw  the  wintry 
dawn  break  round  her,  Merrylips  came  broad  awake. 
At  last  she  knew  that  it  was  no  dream >  but  that  indeed 
she  was  riding  home  to  Walsover, 


WESTWARD   HO!  283 

Not  till  mid-morning,  when  Ryeborough  and  Will 
Lowry  were  miles  behind  them,  did  Dick  Fowell  give 
the  word  to  draw  rein  at  a  village  inn.  There  they 
rested  and  broke  their  fast.  While  Dick  and  Munn 
saw  that  the  horses  were  well  cared  for,  Merrylips  and 
Rupert  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  common  room,  and  talked 
together. 

"'Twas  my  godfather  gave  me  these  clothes,"  said 
Rupert.  "And  he  bade  me,  if  I  was  not  made  welcome 
amongst  mine  own  kin,  come  unto  him  again.  He  is 
right  kind.  I  be  sorry  now  for  the  hard  things  I  have 
said  of  all  rebels,  since  he  himself  is  one." 

Then  he  sat  silent  and  smoothed  the  silken  lining 
of  his  doublet  till  he  saw  that  Merrylips  was  watching 
him.  He  reddened,  as  if  he  were  vexed  with  her  and 
with  himself  that  she  should  see  how  proud  he  was  of 
his  clothes,  but  next  moment  he  said  honestly :  — 

"Thou  seest,  these  be  the  first  garments  ever  I  have 
worn  were  like  a  gentleman's.  And  oh  !  Merrylips — " 
he  cast  down  his  eyes  and  spoke  fast  —  "thou  art  the 
only  one  in  the  world  I  would  ask  it  of,  but  wilt  thou 
not  mark  me,  and  when  we  are  alone  tell  me  whatever 
I  have  done  amiss?  For  when  I  watch  thee  and  thy 
brother,  there's  such  a  weary  deal  for  me  to  learn ! 
And  for  one  thing,"  he  ended,  "maybe  I  should  not 
'thou'  you,  Merrylips." 


284  MERRYLIPS 

She  was  sorry  for  Rupert,  for  she  had  never  seen 
him  in  this  humble  mood.  She  could  not  be  quick 
enough  to  cheer  him. 

"To  be  sure,  I  shall  be  right  vexed  with  thee,"  she 
cried,  "if  thou  dost  call  me  'you'  so  cold  and  formal. 
For  we  say  'thou'  to  those  that  we  love,  and  thou  and 
I,  Rupert,  are  a'most  kinsmen,  and  good  comrades 
surely." 

He  smiled  at  her. 

"That  we  are  !    And  always  shall  be  !"  he  said. 

"And  for  the  other  matter,"  Merrylips  added  hastily, 
for  she  heard  Dick  and  Munn  coming  down  the  passage, 
"I'll  aid  thee  if  I  may  in  that,  as  in  all  else.  But 
indeed  they  are  but  little  things  thou  hast  to  learn, 
Rupert,  and  will  come  unto  thee  quickly." 

So  Merrylips  did  her  best  to  teach  Rupert  to  bear 
himself  as  became  Captain  Lucas's  son,  and  Rupert, 
who  was  a  quick-witted  lad,  learned  when  to  pluck  off 
his  hat  and  bow,  and  how  to  walk  into  a  room  without 
blushing,  and  he  stopped  using  some  of  the  words  that 
he  had  picked  up  in  the  camps. 

When  Dick  and  Munn  saw  what  the  children  were 
about,  they  helped  Rupert  in  many  quiet  ways.  For 
as  soon  as  Munn  had  grasped  the  fact  that  Rupert 
was  not  a  little  impostor,  he  was  grateful  to  him  for 
the  care  that  he  had  taken  of  Merrylips.      So  he  was 


WESTWARD   HO  !  285 

almost  as  kind  as  if  Rupert  had  been  his  own  young 
brother. 

Like  good  comrades,  then,  the  four  went  riding 
westward.  They  went  in  brave  state,  with  a  trumpeter 
and  four  men  to  attend  them.  They  put  up  at  snug 
inns,  where  they  slept  soft  and  ate  and  drank  of  the 
best, — how  different  from  the  last  journey  that  Rupert 
and  Merrylips  had  made!  Sometimes  they  lay  at 
fortified  places,  at  first  of  the  Roundheads  and  later  of 
the  Cavaliers,  for  they  bore  safe  conducts  and  rode 
beneath  a  flag  of  truce. 

They  made  short  stages,  for  Rupert  and  Merrylips 
were  but  young  riders.  Sometimes,  in  cold  or  stormy 
weather,  they  lay  by  for  a  day  or  two.  Thus  it  hap- 
pened that  it  was  hard  December  weather  and  almost 
Christmas  time,  when  they  came  at  last  to  the  end  of 
their  journey. 

All  that  afternoon  they  had  ridden  briskly.  In  rising 
excitement  Munn  and  Merrylips  had  pointed  out  to 
each  other  the  landmarks  that  they  remembered. 
Merrylips  was  grieved  to  see  that  a  farm-house  by  the 
road,  where  Mawkin's  father  had  lived,  was  burned  to 
the  ground.  She  could  scarcely  believe  Munn  when 
he  said  that  the  Roundheads  had  done  this. 

For  the  first  time  she  realized  that  the  war  had  swept 
close  to  her  own  dear  home.     And  she  tried  to  fancy 


286  MERRYLIPS 

what  Walsover  would  seem  like.  For  she  knew  that 
she  should  find  it  fortified  with  walls  and  ditches,  just 
as  Monksfield  had  been,  and  garrisoned  with  troops 
of  soldiers. 

While  she  thought  about  this  change,  they  rode  up 
the  long  slope  of  some  downs,  in  the  bleak  yellow  sunset 
light.  On  the  road  before  them  they  saw  the  black  bulk 
of  a  horseman  against  the  sky.  He  had  paused  to 
watch  them,  and  presently,  as  if  he  had  seen  their 
white  flag,  he  rode  to  meet  them. 

Then  Munn,  who  had  ridden  foremost  all  that  day, 
raised  a  shout :  — 

"Crashaw!     'Truth,   'tis  never  Eustace  Crashaw ! " 

He  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  and  when  Merrylips 
and  the  others  came  up  with  him,  they  found  him 
shaking  hands  and  asking  questions  and  giving  answers, 
all  in  one  breath,  with  the  stammering  lieutenant  from 
the  Monksfield  garrison. 

" Here's  a  r-rare  meeting!"  said  Crashaw,  and 
stammered  more  than  ever.  "R-renounce  me,  if  ye 
have  not  1-little  Tibbott  with  you !  Now  on  my  word, 
1-lad,  Captain  Norris  will  b-be  blithe  to  see  thee  s-sound 
and  well." 

"And  is  Captain  Norris  here  at  Walsover,  sir?" 
Merrylips  asked  in  great  surprise. 

"Ay,  that  he  is,"  Crashaw  answered,  "or  will  b-be 


WESTWARD  HO!  287 

with  the  dawning.  For  after  M-Monksfield  fell,  we 
were  shuffled  off  into  the  w-west,  and  now  at  the  1-last 
are  joined  to  the  Walsover  garrison.  Captain  Brooke 
1-led  one  troop  hither  but  this  d-day,  and  t'other  one 
is  hard  at  our  heels.  So  speedily  your  old  friends  will 
be  here  to  w-welcome  you." 

"So !"  said  Dick  Fowell,  dryly,  as  they  rode  on  once 
more.  "Then  I  shall  be  fortuned  to  speak  again  with 
Lieutenant  Digby?" 

Merrylips'  heart  beat  fast  to  hear  him  say  this.  She 
waited  breathlessly  for  Crashaw's  answer. 

But  Crashaw,  who  was  a  Romanist,  crossed  himself. 
Said  he  :  — 

"  God  r-rest  him  for  a  brave  soldier !  There  is  now 
no  m-more  to  say  of  him." 

Then  Merrylips  knew  that  Miles  Digby  had  fallen 
in  the  fight  at  Monksfield.  From  the  top  of  the  down, 
which  they  now  had  gained,  she  could  see  the  dear  roofs 
of  Walsover  and  faint  lights  gleaming  through  the 
dusk,  but  she  saw  them  misted  over  with  her  tears. 

"Oh!"  she  thought,  "I  would  that  I  had  shaken 
hands  wi'  him,  since  he  did  wish  it,  and  'tis  now  too 
late!" 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

journey's  end 

But  by  the  time  that  they  had  ridden  down  the  long 
slope  in  the  twilight,  and  reached  the  outermost  of  the 
barriers  that  now  were  built  round  Walsover,  Merry- 
lips'  heart  was  light  again.  For  she  had  before  her 
a  great  happiness.  Indeed,  it  was  no  small  matter  to 
come  home  at  last,  after  two  full  years  of  absence. 

They  laid  a  plot  in  whispers,  she  and  Munn,  as  they 
rode  past  the  sentinels.  Munn  should  present  her  to 
her  father  as  a  little  boy,  and  see  if  he  would  recognize 
her.  Then  they  should  have  sport  in  presenting  her 
to  each  one  of  her  kinsfolk  in  turn.  Last  of  all,  they 
should  tell  Lieutenant  Crashaw  that  she  was  no  boy, 
but  a  little  girl. 

"  For  'tis  clear  he  is  so  newly  come  to  Walsover  that  he 
hath  not  yet  had  time  to  learn  of  our  father  which  child 
of  his  was  lost  from  Monksfield,"  Munn  concluded. 

He  chuckled  at  the  thought  of  the  laugh  that  he  should 
have  at  Crashaw.  And  truly  it  was  a  beautiful  plot! 
But  Dick  Fowell  could  have  warned  the  plotters  that 
such  surprises  sometimes  turn  out  unexpectedly  for 


JOURNEY'S   END  289 

their  inventors.  And  so  it  proved  with  Munn  and 
Merrylips. 

Soon  they  had  come  into  Sir  Thomas  Venner's 
presence.  He  stood,  tall  and  martial,  on  the  hearth 
in  the  great  hall,  ready  to  receive  the  envoy  that  had 
been  sent  to  him  under  the  white  flag.  And  Munn 
played  his  part  well.  He  greeted  his  father,  with  all 
respect  and  affection,  and  presented  to  him  Lieutenant 
Fowell,  as  one  to  whom  he  was  much  bound  in  grati- 
tude.    Then  he  began  soberly :  — 

"And,  sir,  I  would  further  bespeak  your  kindness 
for  this  young  lad  — " 

But  there  Merrylips  spoiled  everything.  For  as 
she  gazed  at  her  father,  who  was  so  big  and  strong  and 
splendid  in  his  officer's  dress,  she  remembered  that  sad 
day,  months  ago,  when  she  had  parted  from  him.  She 
felt  that  she  could  not  bear  it,  even  for  a  moment  and 
by  way  of  jest,  to  have  him  look  at  her  as  if  she  were 
a  stranger. 

So  when  Sir  Thomas  turned  to  look  at  the  little  boy 
of  whom  Munn  had  spoken,  Merrylips  ran  to  him  aiid 
caught  his  hand. 

"Daddy!  Mine  own  daddy!  Do  you  not  know 
me,  then?"  she  cried. 

Well,  for  an  instant  he  truly  did  not,  and  he  was  the 
more  perplexed  when  Crashaw  said  kindly :  — 


2QO  MERRYLIPS 

"Sir,  'tis  your  s-son  Tibbott." 

"'Tis  the  first  time  ever  I  heard  that  I  had  such  a 
son,"  Sir  Thomas  answered. 

The  way  in  which  he  said  it  was  so  like  him  that 
Merrylips  laughed,  only  to  hear  him.  And  then,  as 
he  looked  on  her  laughing  face,  a  great  light  seemed 
to  break  upon  him. 

"Merrylips!"  he  shouted.  "Good  faith!  And  is 
it  thou,  brave  little  wench?" 

Merrylips  never  heard  what  Lieutenant  Crashaw 
said  in  the  next  few  minutes  to  Munn,  now  that  he  knew 
the  secret  and  how  he  and  all  Monksfield  had  been 
befooled.  For  she  was  swept  up  bodily  into  her  big 
father's  arms,  and  when  next  she  was  stood  upon  her 
feet,  it  was  in  the  west  parlor  that  she  remembered. 

It  was  the  very  room  where  long  ago  her  mother  had 
told  her  the  dreadful  news  that  she  was  to  be  sent  to 
her  unknown  godmother  at  Larkland.  The  parlor 
had  been  green  that  day  with  the  shadows  of  the  vines, 
but  now  it  was  cheery  with  candles  and  with  firelight. 
A  group  of  gentlewomen  in  silken  gowns  were  seated 
there,  and  a  stout  handmaid  was  in  attendance  on  them. 

Sir  Thomas  stood  Merrylips  upon  a  great  chair  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"And  who  is  there  here  that  knoweth  this  lad?" 
he  cried. 


JOURNEY'S  END  29 1 

Before  Merrylips  could  be  quite  sure  of  the  presence 
in  which  she  found  herself,  a  slender  gentlewoman  rose 
from  her  seat  by  the  fire.  Her  brown  hair  was  thickly 
streaked  with  gray,  and  she  had  the  kindest  smile  in 
the  world. 

"Merrylips!  My  little  Merrylips!"  she  said  in 
a  breathless  voice,  and  stretched  out  her  arms. 

Thus  Merrylips  and  Lady  Sybil  found  each  other 
again.  They  were  laughing  and  crying  and  asking 
questions  long  before  the  others  in  the  parlor  had  taken 
breath.  But  soon  Merrylips  found  them  all  thronging 
round  her. 

Here  was  her  mother,  grave  and  careful  as  ever, 
who  was  glad  to  see  her,  but  not  over- pleased  at  her 
dress.  And  indeed,  for  a  little  girl  who  had  been  sent 
away  to  receive  such  nurture  as  became  a  maid,  Merry- 
lips had  come  home  in  strange  attire. 

Here  was  sister  Puss,  who  was  a  tall  young  gentle- 
woman now,  and  fairer  even  than  Betteris  or  Allison 
Fowell.  Here  was  Pug,  who  was  rosier  and  rounder 
than  ever.  If  you  will  believe  it,  she  was  hemming  a 
napkin,  just  as  Merrylips  remembered  her,  for  all  th£__ 
world  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  A  Garland  of  Virtuous 
Dames ! 

And  here,  too,  was  Merrylips'  own  maid,  Mawkin, 
who  was  waiting  upon  the  gentlewomen.     She  hugged 


292  MERRYLIPS 

Merrylips  harder  than  any,  and  blubbered  aloud  with 
joy  that  she  had  come  safe  home  at  last. 

Hardly  had  the  women  begun  exclaiming  over 
Merrylips,  when  in  came  more  company.  Her  brother, 
Longkin,  came  in  his  lieutenant's  dress.  He  was  grown 
such  a  fine  young  gallant  that  Merrylips  found  it  hard 
to  believe  that  he  had  ever  done  such  an  undignified 
thing  as  to  romp  with  his  brothers  on  the  terrace. 
After  Longkin,  Flip  came  running.  He  was  all  legs 
and  arms,  and  he  squeezed  Merrylips  as  if  she  were 
a  bear  or  another  boy. 

"And  oh!  Flip,"  she  heard  her  own  voice  saying, 
"I  ha'  been  to  the  wars,  for  all  I  am  but  a  wench !  I 
ha'  been  in  a  siege,  and  fired  upon  a  many  times,  and 
chased  by  the  enemy,  and  a  prisoner  among  the  Round- 
heads. And  thou,  what  battles  hast  thou  been  fighting, 
Flip?" 

"  I'm  a  gentleman  volunteer ! "  cried  Flip,  very 
red  and  angry.  "  If  father  would  let  me  ride  into 
battle,  I'd  speedily  show  thee  what  mettle  I  am 
made  of." 

Now  that  she  had  begun  squabbling  with  Flip, 
Merrylips  felt  that  she  had  indeed  come  home.  So 
it  seemed  quite  a  matter  of  course,  when  presently  she 
found  herself  seated  by  the  fire,  with  her  hand  in  Lady 
Sybil's  hand,  and  telling  all  her  strange  adventures. 


JOURNEY'S   END  293 

While  she  was  speaking,  Sir  Thomas  Venner  remem- 
bered the  courtesy  that  he  owed  Lord  Caversham's 
envoy.  He  went  from  the  room,  and  Longkin,  too, 
when  he  heard  that  the  envoy  was  his  old  college  mate, 
Dick  Fowell,  hurried  out  to  speak  with  him.  Merry- 
lips  wondered  if  this  were  the  hour  when  her  father 
would  hear  Rupert's  story.  While  she  wondered,  she 
rambled  in  her  talk  and  grew  silent.  Then  her  god- 
mother vowed  that  she  must  be  weary  and  sleepy 
and  were  best  in  bed. 

"  All  the  rest  thou  shalt  tell  us  on  the  morrow,  heart's 
dearest,"  she  said. 

So  Lady  Sybil  led  Merrylips  to  her  own  chamber 
and  helped  her  to  her  own  bed.  In  the  pale  candle- 
light, when  they  two  were  alone,  they  said  many  things 
that  they  would  not  say  downstairs.  And  Merrylips 
told  how  often  she  had  thought  about  her  godmother, 
and  had  tried  to  do  what  would  please  her,  both  as  a 
girl  and  as  a  little  boy. 

They  were  talking  thus  together,  while  Merrylips 
sat  up  in  bed,  with  her  head  on  Lady  Sybil's  shoul- 
der, just  as  she  had  sat  in  twilight  talks  at  Larkland, 
when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  your  Ladyship!  "  cried  Mawkin's  voice.  "Sir 
Thomas  doth  pray  you,  of  your  courtesy,  come  unto 
his  study." 


294 


MERRYLIPS 


Then  Merrylips  guessed  that  Lady  Sybil  was  to  heat 
the  great  news  about  Rupert,  and  she  cried :  — 

"Oh,  godmother,  prithee  go  quickly!  'Tis  such 
rare  news!" 

But  as  she  saw  Lady  Sybil  rise  from  beside  her  bed, 
she  felt  a  sharp  little  stab  of  fear,  and  perhaps  of  jeal- 
ousy. She  caught  at  her  godmother's  gown  with  one 
hand. 

"But  pray  you,  kiss  me  first,"  she  said.  "For  it 
may  be,  presently,  you  will  not  have  so  much  love 
to  give  unto  me." 

"Thou  silly  child  !"  whispered  Lady  Sybil,  and  kissed 
her,  and  went  her  way. 

Merrylips  knew  that  she  was  silly.  But  she  was 
very  tired,  now  that  the  day  was  ended,  and  she  could 
not  help  having  sad  thoughts.  As  she  lay  alone  in 
the  quiet  chamber,  she  pictured  how  Lady  Sybil,  at 
that  very  moment,  was  opening  her  arms  to  a  child  that 
was  blood -kin  to  her.  Her  heart  grew  heavy.  How 
did  she  know  that  Rupert  would  not  take  her  place  in 
Lady  Sybil's  love? 

In  that  foolish  fear  Merrylips  had  fallen  asleep. 
When  she  woke,  it  was  dark,  but  she  found  herself 
clasped  tight  in  two  arms,  and  she  heard  Lady  Sybil 
speak :  — 

"And  thou  couldst  think  I  had   not  love  enough 


JOURNEY'S   END  295 

for  two  — oh !  thou  little  silly  one  !  Merrylips !  Little 
true  heart,  that  didst  believe  in  my  poor  lad,  even  when 
I  myself  distrusted  him!  Oh,  child,  how  can  I  ever 
love  thee  enough  —  thou,  through  whom,  under  God, 
my  dead  sister's  son  hath  this  hour  been  given  unto 
me!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  PASSING  OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER 

When  Merrylips  woke  next  morning,  she  thought 
at  first  that  she  was  back  at  Monksfield.  She  could 
hear  the  sounds  that  she  loved  —  the  clatter  of  horses 
ridden  over  flagged  pavements,  and  the  note  of  a  trum- 
pet that  bade  the  men  dismount  and  unsaddle.  Then 
she  guessed  that  Captain  Norris  and  his  troop  had  come 
to  Walsover,  as  Lieutenant  Crashaw  had  said  they 
would. 

She  was  all  eagerness  to  see  her  old  friends.  So 
she  sprang  up  and  started  to  dress.  But  when  she 
looked  for  her  shirt  and  her  blue  breeches,  they  were 
not  on  the  form  where  she  had  laid  them.  In  their 
place  was  a  girl's  long  smock  and  a  little  gown  of  gray 
that  Pug  had  outgrown. 

She  was  sitting  on  her  bed,  looking  at  the  gray  gown 
and  winking  fast,  when  Lady  Sybil  came  softly  into 
the  chamber.  Lady  Sybil  understood.  She  did  not 
ask  questions,  nor  did  she  pretend  that  this  was  a 
slight  thing  that  Merrylips  must  do. 

296 


THE  PASSING  OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  297 

"Little  lass!"  she  said  with  a  world  of  meaning. 
"My  little  lass!" 

"Ay,"  Merrylips  answered.  "I  am  a  lass,  when 
all's  said.  I  must  put  on  this  gown,  no  doubt,  and 
oh !  a  petticoat  is  such  a  pestilence  thing  in  which  to 
climb!" 

Then  she  stood  up,  but  before  she  dressed  she  asked : 

"Where  hath  my  mother  hid  my  clothes  —  my 
Tibbott  clothes?" 

Lady  Sybil  smiled,  a  little  sadly,  to  see  how  quick 
Merrylips  was  to  guess  that  it  was  Lady  Venner  who 
had  ordered  her  back  into  her  fit  attire.  But  she 
told  Merrylips  where  the  little  blue  suit  lay,  in  a 
chest  in  a  far  chamber.  And  as  soon  as  Merrylips 
had  flung  on  the  girl's  frock,  she  ran  and  fetched  her 
boy's  suit,  even  the  gloves  and  the  hat,  and  hung  them 
in  Lady  Sybil's  great  wardrobe. 

"I'm  fain  to  have  them  where  I  may  look  upon  them," 
she  said.  "And  maybe,  for  sport,  I'll  don  them  again, 
only  for  an  hour." 

She  looked  to  see  if  Lady  Sybil  would  forbid,  but 
Lady  Sybil  said  never  a  word. 

"On  Christmas  Day,"  said  Merrylips,  then.  "Shall 
we  say  Christmas  Day?    I'll  go  a-masking  in  them." 

So  every  night,  when  she  laid  off  her  girl's  frock,  she 
looked  at  her  blue  doublet  and  breeches  that  hung  in 


298  MERRYLIPS 

the  wardrobe,  and  fingered  them,  and  said  to  her- 
self:— 

"Six  days  more  — "or  five,  or  four,  as  it  might  be  — 
"and  'twill  be  Christmas,  and  godmother  doth  not 
forbid,  and  I  shall  wear  my  boy's  dress  once  again." 

The  days  before  Christmas  went  fast  in  that  great, 
busy  garrison  house  of  Walsover,  and  they  went  fast 
indeed  for  Merrylips.  So  much  she  had  to  tell  and 
hear!    So  many  friends  she  had  to  greet  again! 

She  found  old  Roger  that  had  been  butler  at  Lark- 
land.  He  was  carrying  a  halberd  once  more  in  the  Wals- 
over garrison,  and  he  was  as  eager  as  any  young  man 
of  them  all  to  fight  the  rebels.  She  found  Stephen 
Plasket,  who  came  limping  in,  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas. And  a  long  story  he  had  to  tell  of  the  adventures 
he  had  met  with  in  making  his  escape  through  the 
Roundhead  country !  Best  of  all,  for  Rupert's  sake, 
she  found  Claus  Hinkel,  who  had  been  one  of  those  that 
had  lived  through  the  assault  of  Monksfield. 

Claus  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course  that  Rupert 
was  at  last  restored  to  his  kinsfolk.  Ja,  wohl,  'twas 
bound  to  happen  some  day,  he  told  her.  And  now, 
in  time,  Rupert  would  be  a  captain  like  his  father  before 
him,  and  he,  Claus,  would  ride  in  his  troop. 

"For  that  I  can  do,  gracious  fraulein,"  the  dull- 
witted  fellow  said.     "My  lord,  your  high-born  father, 


THE   PASSING  OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  299 

would  have  made  me  a  corporal,  and  more,  perchance. 
But  I  said  'No !  no  !'  Here  I  am  well  placed,  and  can 
do  my  part.  But  if  I  were  set  higher,  I  should  be  but 
what  you  call  a  laughing-stock." 

Many  and  many  another  of  the  old  Monksfield  gar- 
rison were  missing,  besides  Lieutenant  Digby.  But 
Lieutenant  Crashaw,  and  Captain  Norris,  and  Captain 
Brooke,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  Nick  Slanning, 
who  limped  with  a  newly  healed  wound,  were  all  at 
Walsover. 

Merrylips  talked  with  them,  but  she  was  shy,  almost 
as  if  they  were  new  acquaintances.  And  they  them- 
selves seemed  somehow  shy  of  her.  Once  Slanning 
started  to  tousle  her  hair,  as  he  had  used  to  do,  and 
craved  her  pardon  for  it.  Captain  Brooke  and  Cap- 
tain Norris  were  too  busy  to  speak  with  a  little  girl. 
And  since  she  was  no  longer  a  little  boy,  she  could  not 
run  about  the  courts  and  stables  at  their  heels. 

So  she  found  herself  passing  many  hours  with  her 
mother  and  her  godmother  and  her  sisters.  She  did 
not  like  Pug,  for  Pug  said  that  Dick  Fowell  was  a 
wicked  rebel,  and  would  not  speak  a  word  to  him.  But 
she  liked  tall,  pretty  Puss.  For  Puss  was  always 
asking  questions  about  Dick,  and  often  and  often  she 
spoke  with  him.  Indeed,  Dick  seemed  to  spend  more 
time  with  Puss  than  with  Longkin,  for  whose  sake  it 


300  MERRYLIPS 

was  that  he  said  that  he  was  staying  to  keep  Christmas 
at  Walsover. 

It  was  Puss  too  that  told  Merrylips  about  Lady 
Sybil.  After  she  left  Larkland  Lady  Sybil  had  gone 
among  great  folk  in  foreign  lands,  and  borrowed  money 
for  the  king.  It  was  difficult,  delicate  work,  such  as 
few  might  be  trusted  with.  Then  she  had  brought  the 
money  over  seas  with  her,  through  dangers  of  storm 
and  of  pursuit  by  the  enemy's  ships  that  might  have 
daunted  the  courage  even  of  a  man.  And  when  she 
had  done  this  task,  she  had  gone  to  the  king's  head- 
quarters at  Oxford,  and  there,  with  her  skill  in  nursing, 
she  had  tended  the  wounded  soldiers,  and  thus  had 
come  by  an  illness  that  had  been  almost  mortal. 

Merrylips  pondered  all  this.  She  had  always  seen 
Lady  Sybil  gracious  and  gentle  and  quiet.  She  had 
not  guessed  that  she  had  courage  and  constancy  equal 
to  that  of  a  soldier.  She  had  not  dreamed  that  women 
could  have  such  courage. 

But  Merrylips  was  not  always  with  the  women,  for 
Rupert  and  Flip  were  near  enough  of  her  age  to  make 
her  a  comrade.  Flip  would  have  been  a  little  scornful, 
perhaps.  He  could  not  forgive  Merrylips  for  having 
had  such  adventures,  while  he  sat  tamely  at  home  and 
got  his  lessons. 

But  Rupert  would  have  her  with  them  in  every  sport 


THE   PASSING   OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  3OI 

and  study  in  which  she  could  bear  a  part.  He  liked 
her  in  her  girl's  dress,  and  told  her  so. 

"Thou  art  fairer  than  any  girl  or  woman  in  all  the 
world,"  he  said,  "except  it  be  my  aunt  Sybil." 

Rupert  was  very  proud  of  the  beautiful  kinswoman 
that  had  taken  him  for  her  own.  At  first  he  was  half 
ashamed  to  show  his  pride  and  love,  but  very  soon,  of 
his  own  will,  he  imitated  Merrylips,  as  he  did  in  many 
things,  and  would  come  with  her  to  sit  by  Lady  Sybil 
in  the  twilight  and  ask  questions  and  talk  of  what  was 
near  his  heart. 

One  evening,  the  eve  of  Christmas,  as  it  chanced, 
they  three  were  together.  They  sat  in  the  great  oriel 
window  of  the  long  gallery.  Merrylips  was  at  Lady 
Sybil's  side,  where  she  could  look  out  and  see  the  frosty 
stars,  and  Rupert  was  on  a  cushion  at  her  feet.  They 
had  been  speaking,  as  they  sometimes  did,  of  how, 
when  Rupert  had  had  lessons  for  a  couple  of  years, 
as  was  fitting  for  such  a  young  boy,  he  should  have  a 
commission  as  an  officer  of  the  king,  and  of  all  the  fine 
things  that  he  should  have  and  do  in  years  to  come. 

Then  after  a  silence  Rupert  spoke,  in  the  darkness :  — ■ 

"Good  Aunt  Sybil,  I  ha'  been  thinking,  if  'twere 
not  for  what  Merrylips  did  and  I  did  mock  her  for, 
I  should  never  ha'  been  more  than  a  horseboy  all  my 
life." 


302  MERRYLIR 

And  he  went  on,  with  his  head  against  Lady  Sybil's 
knee : — 

"For  if  she  had  not  had  the  heart  to  pity  Dick  Fowell, 
why,  then,  she  had  never  known  him.  And  so,  at 
Ryeborough,  he  had  been  but  as  any  rebel  officer,  and 
she  had  never  dared  call  on  him  for  help.  And," 
he  said  truthfully,  "I  know  not  what  would  ha'  hap- 
pened me  then,  there  at  the  Spotted  Dog.  But  surely 
we  should  never  have  come  into  Lord  Caversham's 
presence,  and  there  would  'a'  been  none  to  say  with 
surety  that  I  was  my  father's  son.  So  'tis  all  thanks 
to  Merrylips  that  I  am  here,  because  she  had  pity 
on  Dick  Fowell.  Had  you  thought  on  that,  good 
aunt?" 

"Why,  indeed,  I  may  have  thought  it,  Robin,  lad," 
said  Lady  Sybil,  and  in  the  darkness  Merrylips  felt  her 
cheeks  burn  hot. 

Now  the  next  day  was  Christmas,  and  when  Merry- 
lips woke,  she  went  to  the  wardrobe  to  take  down  her 
Tibbott  clothes.  But  just  then  Lady  Sybil  came  into 
the  chamber,  and  with  her  came  Mawkin.  Across 
her  arm  Mawkin  bore  a  little  gown  of  russet  velvet. 
It  had  puffed  sleeves  and  a  short  bodice,  and  the  square 
neck  and  short  sleeves  were  edged  with  deep  lace. 

"Oh!"  said  Merrylips.  "'Tis  for  a  little  girl.  Is 
it  for  me?" 


THE  PASSING  OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  303 

"For  thee.  A  fairing  that  I  brought  thee  out  of 
France,"  said  Lady  Sybil. 

Merrylips  looked  up  from  the  dainty  gown  and 
laughed. 

"Indeed,"  she  said,  "I  fear  you  are  bribing  me, 
godmother,  not  to  wear  my  Tibbott  clothes." 

"Nay,"  said  her  godmother,  "don  them  this  day, 
at  whatever  hour  liketh  thee  best.  Thy  mother  hath 
given  her  free  consent." 

Merrylips  looked  at  the  blue  doublet  and  breeches, 
and  she  looked  at  the  gown  of  russet  velvet.  She 
hesitated,  for  indeed  she  wished  to  do  as  she  had  planned. 
But  the  russet  gown  was  pretty,  and  she  did  not  like 
to  slight  her  godmother's  gift.  Besides  she  had  all 
day  in  which  to  wear  her  boy's  dress. 

So  she  let  herself  be  clad  in  the  velvet  gown.  There 
went  with  it  a  fine  wrought  smock,  and  silken  stockings, 
and  dainty  shoes  of  soft  brown  leather.  Last  of  all 
Lady  Sybil  fastened  round  her  neck  a  slender  chain 
of  silver,  with  a  tiny  heart-shaped  pendant. 

"Wear  this,  dear,  in  the  place  of  the  ring  that  thou 
hast  worn  so  long,"  she  said.  "And  that  I  will  lay 
by  for  now,  with  our  Robin's  ring  — "  for  so  she  called 
Rupert  —  "until  such  time  as  thy  finger  is  big  enough 
to  fit  it  snugly,  and  then  thou  shalt  have  it  for  thine  own." 

In  the  velvet  dress,  it  seemed  to  Merrylips,  when  she 


304  MERRYLIPS 

glanced  into  the  mirror,  that  she  looked  taller  and 
older.  So  she  bore  herself  more  shyly  and  quietly 
than  ever  she  had  done.  She  would  make  up  for  it, 
she  thought,  and  romp  with  the  noisiest,  when  she  had 
put  on  the  Tibbott  clothes. 

But  she  was  glad  that  she  had  put  on  the  girl's  dress 
first.  For  that  Christmas  morning  there  was  dancing 
in  the  long  east  parlor.  And  Merrylips  danced  a 
minuet  with  Munn.  She  was  much  afraid  lest  she  had 
forgotten  Lady  Sybil's  teachings  and  should  make 
false  steps  and  vex  him.  But  she  found  that  she  could 
dance  fairly,  and  Munn  was  very  gallant  to  her.  Then 
Flip  would  dance  with  her  too.  And  Merrylips  found 
it  no  less  pleasant  to  be  treated  courteously  by  her 
brothers  than  to  go  to  fisticuffs  with  them. 

Of  course  there  was  great  feasting  that  day  in  the 
hall  at  Walsover.  But  at  last  the  candles  were  lit, 
and  the  women  rose  and  left  Sir  Thomas  and  his  offi- 
cers to  drink  their  wine.  But  before  they  left  the 
room  Sir  Thomas  stood  up  in  his  place  and  proposed 
a  health  to  Lady  Sybil  Fernefould.  All  those  who 
were  present  must  have  known  of  her  courage  and  her 
devotion  to  the  cause  they  served,  for  they  drank  her 
health,  every  man  of  them,  with  full  honors  and  cheers 
that  made  Merrylips'  heart  beat  quicker. 

When  Lady  Sybil  had  thanked  them,  sweetly  and 


THE   PASSING   OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  305 

fairly,  Captain  Norris  leaned  across  the  table  and 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  Sir  Thomas.  Sir  Thomas 
smiled  and  called  Merrylips  to  him. 

She  went  gravely,  in  her  girl's  frock.  Under  so 
many  eyes  she  was  glad  that  it  was  a  girl's  frock.  Her 
father  helped  her  to  stand  upon  the  stool  beside  him. 
Then  Captain  Norris,  who  she  thought  had  quite 
forgotten  her,  spoke  respectfully,  as  if  he  spoke  of  a 
grown  woman,  and  bade  them  drink  a  health  to  Mis- 
tress Sybil  Venner,  a  brave  and  loyal  servant  of  the 
king! 

She  could  not  believe  that  it  was  for  her  that  the 
cups  were  drained,  and  the  swords  flashed  out,  and 
the  cheers  given.  She  looked  at  all  the  faces  that  were 
turned  toward  her  —  Captain  Norris,  and  Captain 
Brooke,  and  Crashaw,  and  Slanning,  and  Dick  Fowell, 
and  her  brothers,  and  all  her  father's  officers,  kinsmen 
and  friends  whom  from  of  old  she  knew.  She  pressed 
her  two  hands  to  her  throat,  and  for  an  instant  she 
wanted  to  cry. 

She  could  not  speak  as  Lady  Sybil  had  spoken  to 
thank  them.  She  put  out  her  two  hands  uncertainly, 
and  then,  for  it  was  Christmas,  when  men's  hearts 
are  tender  to  little  children,  they  came  to  her,  one  by 
one,  those  tall  officers,  and  kissed  her  hand,  with  all 
courtesy. 


306  MERRYLIPS 

Well,  it  was  over,  all  but  a  memory  that  she  should 
never  lose !  She  was  out  of  the  hall,  and  up  in  her 
chamber.  There  presently  Lady  Sybil  sought  her, 
and  found  her  on  her  knees,  by  a  chest  that  stood 
beneath  the  window.  She  was  folding  away  the  little 
suit  that  Tibbott  Venner  had  worn. 

" Little  —  lass?"  said  Lady  Sybil,  and  stroked  her 
hair. 

"Yes,"  said  Merrylips. 

Her  face  was  still  rosy,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
the  thought  of  what  had  happened  in  the  hall. 

"For  since  I  cannot  be  a  boy,"  she  hurried  on,  "I  will 
not  play  at  being  a  boy.  Besides,  there  be  some  things 
that  a  truly  boy  must  do  and  bear  and  see  —  Oh, 
godmother !  There  at  Monksfield,  that  day  when  I 
found  Dick  —  I  knew  then  that  I  was  fain  to  be  a 
girl. 

"And  some  things  too,"  she  added,  in  a  lower  voice, 
"a  girl  may  have  perchance  that  belong  not  to  a  boy. 
Oh,  godmother,  is't  strange  and  wicked  that  I  should 
think  so?" 

"Nay,  not  strange,"  said  Lady  Sybil,  "nor  all  wicked, 
perchance.  Only  see  to  it  that  thou  still  art  brave 
and  true,  even  as  a  lad." 

"Or  as  you  are,  sweet  godmother,"  whispered  Merry- 
lips.     "Surely  you  are  as  brave  and  loyal,  every  whit, 


THE   PASSING  OF  TIBBOTT  VENNER  307 

as  if  you  were  a  soldier  like  my  father.  And  I'll  try 
to  be  such  a  gentlewoman  as  you  —  indeed  I'll  try!" 

So  speaking,  Merrylips  shut  the  lid  of  the  chest. 
She  smiled,  but  she  gave  a  little  sigh,  too,  as  she  said :  — 

"Fare  thee  well!  I'm  a  lass  —  godmother's  lass 
—  henceforth !  Fare  thee  well,  Tibbott  Venner,  for- 
ever and  ever!" 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


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